FT MEADE 

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HER FATHER CAME IN TO SAY GOOD-BYE 









(Sltzabetfy’s Story 


BY 

Grace Howard Peirce 

%\ 

Associate S. H. N. 



Sold for the Benefit of 
The Sisters of The Holy Nativity 



COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY 

GRACE HOWARD PEIRCE 




©Cl. A 273484 


NOTE. 


“Elizabeth’s Story”, and “The Children of the 
Desert”, appeared in The Churchman ; “Anna Maria’s 
Visit to the Minister”, and “Little Esther”, in Our 
Young Folks ; “ Lenchen’s White Dress” in The Little 
Corporal Magazine. Permission to reprint the* stories 
was kindly given, several years ago, by the Editors of 
those periodicals. 

No record was found of the magazine in which 
“Uncle Joseph” appeared ; but no doubt has been felt 
that a like kind permission would have been obtained 
from that periodical. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Elizabeth's Story 7 

Anna Maria's Visit to the Minister . 33 

Little: Esther 46 

The Children of the Deser/t ... 64 

Uncle Joseph 91 


Lenchen's White Dress 


106 


(Elizabeth’s Story. 


3 T began one autumn morning in the year 
1690, when Elizabeth’s father was going on 
a journey and her grandmother was packing his 
saddlebags. Elizabeth, then a child of eight 
years, stood watching this process with much 
interest. Now and then she took some article 
of those that lay strewn upon the table and 
handed it gently to the old lady, at the same 
time glancing up in her face to make sure that 
this assistance was agreeable to her. 

Elizabeth was dressed in a dark stuff gown 
which came down to her ankles; she had a ker- 
chief on her shoulders, crossed in front and tied 
behind at the short waist ; her sleeves reached 
only to her elbows, and she wore on her head 
a tight-fitting linen cap without any trimming, 
although, to be sure, it needed none, for her 
close-curling hair made a nice little border to it 


8 


■ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


around her forehead and in the back of her neck. 
But in spite of this prim attire, it was a very 
simple, childish face that she turned up to her 
grandmother’s as she proffered her aid. 

When the bags were packed, her father came 
in to take them and to say good-bye. He was 
ready for the journey, in his long boots, wide 
at the top, his belted coat, his high-crowned, 
broad-brimmed beaver hat with band and buckle, 
and his riding-cloak on his arm. He was ready 
to go and yet not ready, for he said, 

“I don’t like to leave thee, mother.” 

“God bless thee, my son !” was her answer. 

God bless him for thinking tenderly of his 
old mother, but go he must, and that they both 
knew. So he embraced her, laid a hand on Eliz- 
abeth’s head, turning it back to kiss her brow, 
and then she and her grandmother followed him 
to the door to see him mount and ride away. 

For a little time after he had crossed the clear- 
ing and entered the wooded road that led from 
his lonely dwelling down to the highway — such 
as it was — to Boston, they could see the sunlight 
flash on the barrel of the gun that was slung at 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


9 


his shoulder. People travelled armed in those 
days because of the Indians, and Mr. Oakes had 
a long journey in prospect. He had sent his two 
hired men to Boston some time before, with a 
load of grain for sale, and they were to bring 
back certain things which were needed for the 
winter. Mr. Oakes had given them a letter to a 
friend of his who would transact the business 
for him and set the men on their homeward way. 
The time came, however, when they should have 
been back and they did not appear ; day after 
day passed and still they did not come ; and Mr. 
Oakes grew anxious, for they might have been 
attacked by Indians on the way to Boston and 
thus have never reached there, or perhaps they 
had been fallen upon on the return. And the 
more he thought of it, the more probable it 
seemed that some dreadful misfortune had over- 
taken them. Finally, he decided to go himself 
and see what had happened, and his mother urged 
him to start at once, for though the weather was 
still fine it might change very soon, and a Novem- 
ber storm would greatly increase the difficulties 
of travel. 


10 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


He had set out therefore, but, as he said, he 
was loath to leave his mother alone in the wilder- 
ness with only his little daughter and a maid- 
servant for company. The thought kept coming 
to him that, after all, it might be some simple 
chance which had delayed the men ; and who 
could tell what might happen at home while he 
was away? For it was not only travellers who 
were in danger from the savages. A man might 
take a long journey and return in perfect safety, 
and yet they would have dealt him a terrible 
blow ; he might find smoking ashes where his 
peaceful home had stood, and those of his family 
whom the Indians had not murdered they would 
have carried away captive. 

And the ones who escaped from the massacre 
with their lives were perhaps the most to be 
pitied, for the sufferings of such a captivity were 
very great. Delicate women and little children 
were dragged on long marches, often half-clothed 
in bitter weather and half-starved, and loaded, 
too, with heavy burdens. Many of them were 
killed in the end because they could not keep up 
with their captors, while of those who lived 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


11 


through such hardships some were lost forever to 
home and family and heard of no more. Others 
were taken to Canada and sold to the French 
colonists as slaves ; but this last was a happy lot 
because from there they might be ransomed by 
their friends. 

King Philip’s war was over fourteen years 
before this time, but troubles with the Indians 
were by no means at an end. For nearly a century 
after, they still, from time to time, devastated 
villages and descended on lonely houses and did 
always and everywhere as much mischief as they 
could ; now it was in one part of the country, now 
in another; and the settlers would turn out and 
pay them back when they could get hold of them. 
Then, after every such raid, there would be a 
period of quiet, but it was a sort of truce that 
might be broken at any moment. 

When Mistress Oakes and Elizabeth had 
watched the traveller as far as they could, and he 
had turned and waved his hand for the last time, 
they went into the house and set about their usu- 
al occupations. For the old lady thought that 
even a child of Elizabeth’s age should begin to 


12 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


be useful ; and when she had finished such small 
household matters as her grandmother entrusted 
to her, there were lessons to learn and it was 
only when they were done that she could play. 

She sat at one end of the table in the great 
kitchen, which was sitting-room and dining- 
room as well, and wrote copies and learned to 
reckon, or studied the catechism and got verses 
from the Bible by heart. There was talk of her 
going later to Northampton to school ; but North- 
ampton was five or six miles away, where they 
went to meeting on Sundays, so that it would be 
too far for her to go and come daily, and the 
Rev. Mr. Stoddard, the minister, had offered to 
take her into his family. This, however, was not 
a pleasing prospect to Elizabeth ; and when her 
grandmother thought her idle, it was only neces- 
sary to say, Ah, well, it was time she went to 
school! and she became surprisingly diligent at 
once. Her acquaintance with the excellent Mr. 
Stoddard had been limited thus far to hearing 
his two long sermons on the Sabbath and being 
privately catechised by him, between meetings, 
when they went to his house for the noontide 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


13 


meal ; and this had not led her to suppose she 
would care for his daily society. 

Speaking of Sunday — that was such a going 
to church as we never see in these days. There 
were no carriages in 1690, at least in that part 
of the country, so Mistress Oakes mounted on a 
pillion behind her son, while Elizabeth rode with 
one of the men-servants, and Hannah, the maid, 
with the other. It was quite a cavalcade. In 
winter, on such occasions, Elizabeth and her 
grandmother wore black velvet masks as a pro- 
tection from the wind and cold. These masks 
covered the whole face, having eyeholes and aper- 
tures ior breathing ; and that of Mistress Oakes 
was kept in place by a silver mouthpiece which 
she held between her lips, but Elizabeth’s had an 
arrangement of strings and buttons ; she put a 
button in each corner of her mouth and so kept 
the mask steady. Then in summer, when Eliza- 
beth exchanged the velvet mask for one of green 
silk to protect her from the sun, her grandmother 
wielded a monstrous fan for the same purpose. 
It was two feet long and made of green paper ; 
and though we may fancy that she looked rather 


14 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


droll with it, it is quite possible that there were 
persons then w T ho thought that Madam Oakes 
looked very grand indeed, when she came riding 
up in that style, and furled her fan and walked 
into meeting. 

Well, as we were saying, Elizabeth had her 
daily lessons ; but there might be a worse task 
given her than any in the books. She had once 
been set up at the table to write a letter ; and that 
was a terrible piece of business, even though the 
occasion for it was pleasant enough. 

She came in, one afternoon, from the fields 
where she had been helping toss the hay, and 
found her grandmother contemplating a beautiful 
red cloak which, to judge from the size of it, was 
intended for Elizabeth, and also a handsome 
piece of stuff, of a rich, dark blue, undoubtedly 
destined to make a gown for that same little 
person. 

“See here, Elizabeth !” cried the old lady, ex- 
ultingly. “And now, who do you think sent you 
these beautiful things?” 

Usually, when Mistress Oakes asked a ques- 
tion, she liked people to have a sensible answer 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


15 


ready ; but this time she really expected Eliza- 
beth to say she didn’t know, and then she meant 
to tell her. For how, indeed, should the child 
know? Brought up as she had been in the wil- 
derness and having hardly even heard of her 
kinsfolk in old England, how was she to think 
that one of them had heard of her and, having 
a convenient opportunity, had remembered her 
thus kindly? Moreover, she had not seen the 
messenger come and go who left the parcel. It 
must seem to her as if it had fallen from the 
skies. 

But it never occurred to Mistress Oakes that 
that might be no great wonder to Elizabeth. The 
rain that her father asked for when the ground 
was parched, came out of the skies ; and the in- 
visible Presence that filled the lowly room, morn- 
ing and evening, when he prayed, was far more 
real and nearer to the child than any kindred 
beyond the sea. God gave her father the plen- 
teous harvest, He would doubtless give her 
father’s little girl what she needed. She had 
learned, too, that very day, about the grass of 
the field — “and shall He not much more clothe 


16 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


you, O, ye of little faith?” 

All this flashed into her mind when she saw 
how her grandmother touched and smoothed the 
handsome stuffs, as if they were quite different 
from any common clothes ; and when the old 
lady pressed her further, determined to have an 
answer of some sort, “And now who sent them, 
Elizabeth ?” she answered simply, but very rever- 
ently : 

“I suppose.it was the Lord.” 

Upon that her grandmother looked at her in 
a singular manner and silently proceeded to fold 
up the things and lay them away. Elizabeth 
could not tell whether she had said well or ill. 
A little later, however, she happened to hear her 
grandmother repeating to her father what had 
passed, and as she gave Elizabeth’s reply, she 
added fervently: 

“Tis a blessed child, Josiah.” To which he 
answered with conviction, “Ay!” 

So then Elizabeth knew she had said well, 
though yet, as it afterwards appeared, not exactly 
right, either; for her grandmother explained to 
her that while all the good things of this life 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


17 


came indeed from God, yet, in this especial in- 
stance, He had put it into the heart of her great- 
aunt, Mistress Betty Garrett, to send a gift to her 
little kinswoman. Therefore she must write her 
a letter of thanks, as well as be grateful to the 
Lord that she was supplied with goodly clothing 
such as was not always to be come by in the 
colony. 

Then her father made her a pen, and her 
grandmother put paper and ink before her, 
showed her where to begin with “Honored 
Madam” and, adding some hints as to what she 
should say, left her to her own devices. 

Unfortunately, those devices did not greatly 
tend to the matter in hand. It would take too 
long to describe even half of them, but they 
began in the discovery that the feather-end of a 
goose-quill tickled her small features agreeably, 
and ended in the application of the same feather 
to the fore-legs of an ancient blue-bottle fly 
which was taking a morning walk upon the table. 
When touched very gently the fly would jump 
over the barrier and continue its promenade as 
before, and to see it do this afforded Elizabeth 


18 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


infinite amusement. The fly, however, being a 
stout and unwieldy insect, became fatigued in 
the course of time by these gymnastics and sud- 
denly betook itself to the other end of the table, 
whereupon Elizabeth returned with a sigh to 
“Honored Madam.” 

She had already returned to that many times 
and said it over and over, but nothing else came 
of its own accord, and if she thought of anything 
herself she did not like to set it down lest it 
should be wrong and so she had spoiled her fair 
sheet of paper. But now she began to wonder 
what was to be the end of this or, indeed, if it 
would ever end. Letter writing was a very 
wearisome occupation. She had been sitting there 
a long, long while! 

Honored Madam ! There was Hannah going 
to feed the pigs, and if there was anything Eliza- 
beth liked it was to see the pigs fed, on account 
of the little one that often got left out and ran 
distractedly up and down behind the row of tails, 
but finally squeezed in, in spite of grunts and 
shoves, and, planting its fore feet in the trough, 
made up for lost time. 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


19 


Well, she would not see that, that day ; and it 
was with a feeling almost of despair that she re- 
peated once more: “Honored Madam.” In vain! 
Everything that her grandmother had suggested 
was now really quite gone out of her head, so 
that when the old lady came briskly stepping to 
see how the letter progressed she was greeted 
with a great sob. 

“Why, Elizabeth! A pretty thing, to send a 
letter of thanks all blistered with tears !” 

And truly she was spoiling her fair sheet of* 
paper now, in good earnest. She brushed away 
the splashes on it with her little round arm and 
looked up imploringly, her lips still quivering 
and her eyes full. 

“Come, come !” said Madam Oakes, in a tone 
calculated to brace anybody up. “Let us have no 
more dilly-dallying! Take your pen and say 
that the cloak and gown she so kindly sent have 
been received and they are very handsome and 
will be extremely comfortable in cold weather, 
and that you thank her heartily. And then say 
anything else pretty that you can think of, and 
pray her excuse your bad writing, and sign your- 


20 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


self her dutiful and affectionate grand-niece — 
putting in honored madam, again, just as I told 
you before.” 

And see, now ! it was not so difficult, after all. 

r 

Elizabeth set to work bravely, and, except when 
some letter started off in the wrong direction and 
she had to fetch it back again, running out her 
small tongue and holding her head on one side, 
everything went very well. And this is the way 
her epistle to Mistress Betty looked when it was 
finished : 

Honored Madam ! 

The Cloake and Gownde you soe kindely sent 
was Receeved and thay are verry Hansum, and I 
thanke you heartely for them. And Thay will bee 
verry Comfortabel in coaid Wether. And I can 
thinke of nothinge Else but hope You are in 
Goode Helthe and pray You exchuse my bade 
Riting but indede I have Done my beste and soe 
am, Hounored Maddam, 

Youre dutyfulle and Affekshunate 
Grande neice, 

Elizabeth Oakes 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


21 


When her grandmother saw that, she said it 
would suffice. The spelling did not matter; for 
Madam Oakes herself, who sat down to fill up the 
rest of the paper, expressed her satisfaction with 
regard to the Goodlie Cloatheing, and called 
Elizabeth a swete Childe whom she hoped to be 
spared to bring up untille Shee was of an age to 
rule her father’s househoalde. 

People spelt much as they pleased in those 
days, and used capital letters as the fancy took 
them, and no one felt called upon to be critical. 

All this, however, has nothing to do with 
Elizabeth’s story. There was no letter to write 
the day her father went away, the lessons were 
finished unusually early, and Elizabeth was sit- 
ting on the doorstep in the warm sunshine, look- 
ing up at the little clouds that sailed in the sky, 
or watching the cattle in the field, when suddenly 
her attention was arrested by an obje'ct which 
emerged from the woods beyond the pastures; 
and after looking a minute to make sure she 
called back into the house: 

“Grandmother, here comes an Indian!” 

Mistress Oakes hastened to the door and sure 


22 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


enough ! there came an Indian across the clearing, 
making straight for the house. When he was 
quite close he gave two or three grunts which in 
his language might have been something civil, 
like, “Lady, will you allow me to enter?” but 
which sounded a good deal more like “Stand out 
of the way, white woman!” and therewith, in he 
walked, cast off his blanket and squatted down 
in the great chimney-place by the fire. 

It was nothing very unusual for Indians to 
claim hospitality, and when they came unarmed 
and with apparently friendly intentions, they 
were always well received. But Mistress Oakes 
was not overpleased to have such a visitor at 
such a time — just when the men of the house- 
hold were away. 

He crouched there as motionless as if he were 
cast in bronze, and with seemingly closed eyes 
might have appeared to take no note of what was 
passing ; but the old lady caught a gleam under 
the drooping lids from time to time and knew 
perfectly well that he was watching her as she 
went about her avocations. He looked at Eliza- 
beth, too, in the same sly manner; and Hannah, 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


23 


the hired girl, when she was told to put some 
meat to roast, exclaimed : 

“Oh, ma’am ! he’s no more asleep than I am. 
I wouldn’t go near him for anything !” 

Hannah had not been long with the family 
and, never having seen an Indian before, was 
greatly terrified and thought he might jump up 
and kill her if she came within his reach. But 
that was not their way. 

Accordingly, Mistress Oakes herself — with 
the air which sensible people have when they 
wish to be forbearing with folly — put a piece of 
bear’s meat on the spit, and when it had sizzled 
and sputtered for a while before the blazing fire, 
she murmured to herself, “Tis cooked enough 
for a heathen,” and therewith cut off a great 
piece, laid it upon a thick slice of bread and 
handed it to the unbidden guest. 

He took it, got up, drew his blanket around 
him, and placing the food in one of its folds, 
walked out of the house and straight across 
the pastures back to the wood, where he had pro- 
bably left his weapons. And as he disappeared 


24 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


among the trees, Mistress Oakes devoutly hoped 
that was the last they were to see of him. 

She had scolded Hannah for being silly and 
frightened, yet she herself, in her secret heart, 
had a terrible presentiment of evil all that day. 
For the Indian might be what he seemed, a harm- 
less passer, or he might be one of a band — a 
scout sent out to see how the land lay, in prepa- 
ration for a night attack. 

The shades of evening fell, the cattle were 
safely under cover, and the mistress of the house 
saw to it that the doors and windows were well 
barred ; but, even as she placed the fastenings, she 
thought what a slight protection they would be 
against a horde of savages with firebrands in 
their hands. 

For all that, there could hardly have been 
a more perfect scene of domestic contentment 
and security than the great kitchen afforded 
when the blazing logs gave out their cheerful 
light and the two spinning-wheels began to hum, 
Mistress Oakes’ on the one side and Hannah’s on 
the other, while little Elizabeth sat between with 
her knitting-pins, which she, was learning to 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


25 


move quite cleverly. Knitted stockings were still 
something of a rarity at that time, and Elizabeth 
was proud to make herself a pair for great occa- 
sions, in place of the cloth ones that set clumsily 
enough on her little feet. 

Then , by and by, when Mistress Oakes 
thought sufficient work had been done, she said, 

“Bring the Bible, Elizabeth.” And that meant 
they were going to bed. 

Elizabeth stood beside her grandmother and, 
following the old lady’s pointing finger, mingled 
her childish treble with the deeper tones, as they 
read one of the Psalms aloud. Sometimes the 
little silvery voice got left behind on a long word, 
but only to chime in again presently with all 
confidence. To the serving-maid, who did her 
part by listening, the child was a marvel of learn- 
ing. Hannah could not, to save her life, have 
made out even a syllable of the sacred Book. 

After that, Mistress Oakes asked God’s pro- 
tection for the helpless little household in the 
wilderness, commended the master of it to His 
sovereign care, and so they went to rest. 

At least, Elizabeth and Hannah were soon 


26 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


asleep, but the old lady lay for a long time think- 
ing of her son, and thinking, too, of the Indian 
who had come that morning, and of all the vari- 
ous possibilities connected with his visit, until 
she was so wide awake that she decided to get up 
again and spin, hoping by that means to tire her- 
self into sleeping. 

She rose softly, dressed herself, uncovered 
the fire, put on a fresh log, and was just sitting 
down to her wheel, when an unwonted sound 
broke the stillness of the night — the faint whinny- 
ing of a horse, far across the clearing; then 
deathly silence again. 

Her heart stood still. The presentiment which 
had been upon her all that day told her it was the 
Indians, and if they had horses with them, that 
meant they had already been raiding some other 
farm. Quickly opening one of the shutters a 
little, she saw, by the light of the moon, dark 
figures moving and slowly advancing towards 
the house from the direction of the wood. 

“Elizabeth!” she cried, “Get up and dress 
thyself ! Hannah, get up ! The Indians !” 

She urged them to haste, but she herself was 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


27 


perfectly composed and full of courage at that 
terrible moment. Elizabeth never forgot that of 
her grandmother, and it is well for us, too, to 
remember that it was such heroic women who 
helped to found our country. No thought of de- 
fence or resistance was possible ; the most that 
could be done was to be ready in case the Indians 
were minded to take them away captive ; and 
this was what Mistress Oakes hoped for Eliza- 
beth and Hannah, though she knew that an old 
woman like herself would be only an encum- 
brance on the march, and therefore would doubt- 
less be struck down at once. 

“Cease thy noise, girl !” she said, sternly, 
when Hannah broke out into wailing. “Mayhap 
they will not kill thee. Thou art young and 
strong. Be still ! and they will take thee with 
them.” 

Poor little Elizabeth, trembling but quiet, was 
soon dressed by her grandmother and lastly 
wrapped in her red cloak, while the old lady 
flung a warm garment to Hannah, saying, “Put 
that about thee! The nights are chill.” 

Then they stood and listened. 


28 


ELIZABETH’S STORY. 


The Indians always aimed to surprise their 
victims, and now they could be distinctly heard 
trying to get in at the back of the house, though 
working cautiously, as their manner was, and 
making very little noise. The barn and dwelling- 
house were under one roof, and if the wretches 
were once in, there was only a long narrow pas- 
sage and a single door leading into the kitchen, 
between them and their prey. This door was 
fastened, but could soon be burst open with their 
hatchets. 

Mistress Oakes placed herself in the middle 
of the room and sent Elizabeth to stand by the 
hearth where she would be out of the way of the 
first onslaught, and where Hannah, too, was 
crouching and sobbing. 

“Elizabeth/’ said her grandmother, as calmly 
as if she were not facing death, “if they take thee 
with them, forget not thy God among the strange 
people. Say over all thy Bible verses daily and thy 
prayers, — forget none of them; so will anyone 
who meets thee be able to perceive thou art a 
Christian child. And remember thy own name 
and thy father’s, and the names of all the people 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


29 


hereabout, that thy father may find thee, poor 
lamb, some day, and know thee for his own, 
though it be years and years hence.” 

Elizabeth had behaved like the old lady’s own 
granddaughter up to that moment ; but whether 
it was all those “years and years,” or the many 
things she must remember, that were too much 
for her, she, at all events, suddenly broke down 
and, running to cling to her grandmother’s skirt, 
cried piteously, 

“O, grandmother, I never can ! Don’t let them 
take me !” 

“Go back and stand where I bade thee!” said 
the old lady, but then added, more gently, “Turn 
thy head away, child, when they strike me. And 
think not that it hurts me very much. I am old.” 

For now the end was indeed approaching. 
They heard the unmistakable sound of the open- 
ing of the barn door, and from the little noise with 
which this had been afifected, it appeared as if 
the Indians must, in their cunning, have dis- 
covered a secret way of getting into the house 
hitherto known only to the inmates of it. 

There was presently a brushing sound in the 


30 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


narrow passage as if it were filling up with the 
savages ; and then something happened which 
seemed almost more horrible to those in expect- 
ant waiting than if the Indians had raised their 
war-cry and thrown themselves against the door. 

The latch was slowly lifted and cautiously 
dropped into its place again. There was a mo- 
ment’s pause and then came three distinct raps 
upon the door and a sort of muffled call. 

And Elizabeth, to her grandmother’s amaze- 
ment, and before she could prevent her, ran 
across the room and drew back the bolt ! 

The next instant the whole doorway was filled 
up by a tall man, in riding-boots, and long cloak 
hanging from his shoulders, who stood and gazed 
and said, 

“Why, mother!” 

“Why, Josiah! Is it thou?” 

It was he ! — safely come back, having met the 
men before he had gone far. 

Mistress Oakes was not given to fainting 
away and there was no scene. The scene, indeed, 
had been all beforehand. 

Mr, Oakes had simply ridden ahead when 


ELIZABETH'S STORY. 


31 


they got in sight of home, and he and his horse 
and their shadows had looked to his mother like a 
band of Indians as they paced up the slight in- 
cline between the wood and the house. Then he 
had gone round to the barn, pushed back the little 
sliding shutter in the door, by which means he 
could, with some exertion, just -reach in and draw 
the great bolt. That was a discovery he had 
made once by chance, and as there was probably 
not an Indian in the land who was as tall as he 
or had an arm so long, he had not felt obliged to 
make the shutter fast and had used it on this oc- 
casion with much satisfaction, in the belief that 
he should thus disturb his mother less than by 
knocking at the door. 

That the fact had been quite otherwise was 
plainly not his fault. In any case, Mistress Oakes 
had no time, just then, to dwell upon her fright, 
for she and Hannah set immediately about get- 
ting the tired men something to eat. 

Elizabeth, however, was sent to bed, where 
she soon was fast asleep again, without even 
dreaming perhaps, that night, that this was a 


32 ELIZABETH'S STORY. 

story which she would tell to generations yet 
unborn — to her children first, and then to her 
grandchildren. 




Ctnna ZTTaria’s Pisit to tfye 
minister. 


dfVtto R. and Mrs. Littlefield live in a large white 
UW house, with a garden in front of it where 
peonies, marigolds, and phlox grow in great 
abundance. There are two barns, and horses, 
cows, pigs, hens, chickens, ducks, geese, and 
all sorts of delightful things ; but the nicest thing 
about the house, inside or out, is Anna Maria. 
There used to be a number of children at the 
Littlefields’, but now there are five little graves 
in the churchyard, and only one little girl at 
home. The neighbors think Mrs. Littlefield spoils 
her, but I am not sure about it; at any rate, she 
can’t help it. You see, when Anna Maria cuts up 
one of her mother’s embroidered collars to make 
a cape for her doll, or when she goes down in the 
swampy meadow and, leaving her new shoes 


34 ANNA MARIA'S VISIT TO THE MINISTER 


sticking there, comes walking into the kitchen 
in her stocking-feet, making little muddy marks 
on the nice clean floor, and looking all the time 
as tranquil as a May morning, her mother thinks 
of her children in the churchyard, how good 
they always are, how their feet never stray into 
forbidden places, and their hands never touch 
what doesn’t belong to them ; and so, instead of 
telling Anna Maria that little girls who do so 
are always put in a dark closet for half an hour, 
she says: “Well, there, it’s no matter. Dolly’s 
got a pretty cape, and mother can buy plenty of 
collars;” or, “Bless the dear child! Just look at 
at her now ! Here, Lizzie, run get her a clean 
pair o’stockings.” 

One day the parish “called” a new minister. 
The first time he preached all the people went 
to church to see how they liked him. The Little- 
fields went, of course, and they took Anna Maria. 
She was about five years old then, and had never 
been to church before ; but, to the great delight 
of her parents, she behaved as well as if she were 
fifty. 

At dinner that day, Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield 


ANNA MARIA'S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 35 


said to each other that they liked the new minis- 
ter very much. 

“And I like him, too,” said Anna Maria. 

“Do hear her now!” said her mother. “She 
never took her eyes off his face all the time he 
was preaching. Did you understand what he 
said, dearie?” 

But dearie wasn’t going to commit herself, so 
she only shook her head in a wise manner, and 
repeated that she liked him. 

A few days afterwards the minister came to 
see Mrs. Littlefield. Anna Maria went into the 
parlor with her mother, and stationing herself 
directly in front of him, watched every word that 
came out of his mouth. Mrs. Littlefield and he 
had a great deal to say about the “warm spell” 
they had been having, and a number of other 
things ; but as soon as she got an opportunity, 
Anna Maria inquired, “Why don’t you talk as 
you did Sunday?” at the same time gesticulating 
wildly with both arms in the air. 

“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Littlefield, and 
her face was about the color of the peonies in the 
garden ; but before she could say anything more 


36 ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 


the minister burst into a fit of laughter, and she 
was only too glad to join him. After that, he 
talked a great deal to Anna Maria, and when he 
went away he said, “Will you come and see me 
sometime, my little friend?” 

“O yes, sir,” she said, “I’ll come to-morrow.” 

So, the next morning, mindful of her promise, 
she asked, “Will you take me to see the minister 
to-day, mother ?” 

“Why, my blessing, mother’s got the cheeses 
to ’tend to, and half a hundred other things to do ; 
but we’ll go some day.” 

Now, if she was only five years old, Anna 
Maria had lived long enough to discover that the 
time specified by her mother meant just the same 
thing as never. So when her father came home 
that night, with the men and oxen and two great 
loads of hay, she ran out to the barn, and said: 
“Father, will you take me to see the minister to- 
morrow ?” 

“Well, well, that is a pretty good one ! Ask me 
to go gallivanting about the country in haying- 
time! Come, let’s go and get some supper,” lift- 
ing her on his shoulder as he spoke. 


ANNA MARIA'S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 37 


“Run, father, run!” said she, drumming on 
his head ; and poor Mr. Littlefield, who had 
thought himself almost too tired to walk home 
beside the oxen, pranced clumsily across the yard 
and into the house. 

Now Anna Maria didn’t intend to give up the 
visit to her clerical friend for all the cheeses that 
ever were made, or all the hay that ever was cut ; 
and the next day, when her mother was taking 
her afternoon nap, she went up to the room that 
contained the Littlefield best clothes, and there, 
after much rummaging of drawers and closets, she 
brought to light her hat trimmed with blue rib- 
bon, and her little blue parasol. The silk sack 
which she wore on great occasions did not come 
to hand, but Mrs. Littlefield’s Sunday mantilla 
did; so she arrayed herself therein, feeling that 
her mother would willingly lend it to her, as she 
was going to make calls. If you had seen the 
mantilla on Mrs. Littlefield, you would have 
called it a small one, for it reached just to her 
waist; but on Anna Maria it looked very large 
indeed ; the fringe almost touched the ground. 
Much pleased with her appearance, she set out 


38 ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 


on her way down the long, dusty, sunny road. 
She had not the least idea where the minister 
lived, but, reasoning after a natural fashion, she 
thought it must be near the church, and accord- 
ingly in that direction she bent her steps, trudg- 
ing bravely along until she came within sight of 
the steeple; and then, rightly judging that he 
would be as likely to live on one side of the 
church as the other, she opened the gate of a 
little brown cottage, went up the gravel walk, 
and inquired of a lady who sat reading on the 
piazza if the minister lived there. 

“No, dear,” said she; then, looking at her 
attentively, “Why, where did you come from? 
What is your name?” 

“Anna Maria Littlefield,” — backing towards 
the gate as she spoke. 

“Well, but what are you doing, child? Your 
mother doesn’t know you are wandering about 
so, I am sure.” 

“I’m gallivanting,” said Anna Maria, “and I 
guess I must be going. Good afternoon, ma’am,” 
and she slipped through the gate, shutting it, and 


ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 39 

setting off again at a quick pace for fear the lady 
should follow her. 

The church stood back from the road, and 
had a green slope of grass in front, with two 
little paths on each side, made by the feet of the 
good people who came there every Sunday, Up 
the road there were apple-trees leaning over the 
stone fences, and an old white horse stumbling 
slowly along, and cropping the short, dusty 
grass, but not a house in sight! Then, for the 
first time, the little pilgrim cast a look behind, 
though not a long one; she was a trifle discour- 
aged, but not in despair, so she went up and sat 
on the lowest step of the church to rest herself 
and wait till some one should come along who 
could tell her how to find the minister. Ten min- 
utes passed* seeming to Anna Maria like so many 
hours, and nobody went by but the old horse, who 
looked up at her, shook his head, and then sud- 
denly trotted off, as if he felt it his duty to go 
and inform someone, at once, that a little girl 
was sitting on the church-steps, and something 
must be done about it. At last she heard the 
sound of approaching wheels. Yes, there was a 


40 ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 


chaise coming, and it might be the minister go- 
ing home, or her father coming to look for her. 
It must be either one or the other. So, with hope 
in her heart, she ran down to the road. The 
chaise drew up just as she had expected, but, 
alas ! the gentleman who leaned out was no one 
she had ever seen before. 

“What is it, little girl ?” said he. 

“I want the minister,” — and there was a trem- 
ble in her voice. 

“What?” said the gentleman, in surprise. 
“Did your mother send you, dear?” 

“No, but he asked me to come and see him, 
and I don’t know where he lives” ; and she looked 
up in his face piteously. 

Then, of course, he asked her name, and on 
hearing it exclaimed, “Why, Littlefield’s house 
is a mile and a half away! You must be pretty 
well tired, poor child” ; and he jumped out of the 
chaise, put her in, got in again himself, and drove 
off in less time than it takes to tell of it. 

“We shall pass right by the minister’s, and 
I’ll leave you there. I’m going to the cars, or I 
would take you home,” said he. 


ANNA MARIA'S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 41 


“O, thank you, sir, I’d rather you wouldn’t/’ 
said Anna Maria. 

They rode along very quickly for a little 
while, then the chaise stopped before the minis- 
ter’s house. The gentleman lifted her out, hold- 
ing her a minute in his arms to give her a kiss 
and say good-by, opened the gate, and then 
drove off faster than ever. 

Anna Maria went up the steps and knocked 
by the side of the door, which stood wide open, — 
such a very little knock that she had to repeat it 
two or three times, and still nobody came. Then 
she thought it was time to go in. She looked into 
the nearest room; there was no one there. She 
went along a little farther to a door that stood 
half open, stepped in, and there was the minister. 
He was writing just as hard as he could, and 
took no notice of his little visitor, who stood half 
concealed by the door, and overcome by an un- 
usual fit of shyness. Suddenly he caught sight 
of her as he was dipping his pen in the ink, ready 
for a fresh start. 

“Why, who is this ?” said he ; then, as he 
stepped forward a little, “Ah, my little 


42 ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 


friend! Is your mother with you, dear?” — com 
ing to meet her with a pleasant smile. 

“No sir, I came alone,” said Anna Maria, 
quite reassured by his voice, and ready to sit on 
his knee, tell him all her adventures, and answer 
as many questions as he had to ask. 

Then he called Mrs. White and told her that 
she must make him something particularly nice 
for tea, because he had company. Mrs. White 
kept house for the minister, and cooked his din- 
ners for him. 

“Well, I never!” she said, coming in to look 
at Anna Maria. “She certainly doos beat all !” 

When tea was ready, instead of “something” 
very nice, they found a great many nice things. 
Mrs. White put a chair for Anna Maria close to 
the minister’s, and after he had got two great 
books to put in it, so that her head might be a 
little above the table, they sat down, and had a 
delightfully social time. 

“Perhaps she ought not to eat this,” said the 
minister, stopping in the act of passing the plum- 
cake to Anna Maria, and looking up at Mrs. 
White, who was standing behind her. 


ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 43 


“O, she has pretty much what she likes at 
home, I guess,” said Mrs. White. “Seems as if 
Mrs. Littlefield couldn’t make enough of her ; 
she’s lost five children, you know, sir.” 

Anna Maria was well aware that she didn’t 
have plum-cake every time she asked for it, but 
thought it best to let the first part of the remark 
go without comment. As Mrs. White finished 
speaking, however, she looked up in surprise, say- 
ing, “Why, no, they’re not lost. Mother knows 
where they are, and so do I. They’ve got little 
white stones at the head of their beds, — and 
they’re very happy down there,” she added, after 
a minute’s pause. 

The minister felt that, if she were somewhat 
wrong as to locality, the idea was quite cor- 
rect ; so he. smiled kindly at her, patting the little 
hand that lay on the table, and making no attempt 
at amendments. As soon as tea was over, the 
chaise came to the door, because the minister 
said, “Mother may be anxious” ; and Mrs. White 
helped Anna Maria to dress, laughing heartily 
to see how funny she looked in Mrs. Littlefield’s 
mantilla. Anna Maria did not exactly under- 


44 ANNA MARIA'S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 


stand the cause of her mirth, and, fixing her 
dark eyes upon her in disapproval, said at last, 
soberly, “Mother wears it to church Sundays/’ 

“Why, bless you !” said Mrs. White, “ ’t ain’t 
the mantilla I’m a laughing at, — it’s yon, you 
funny little toad!” 

Then they got into the chaise, and set out in 
fine spirits. The minister’s horse seemed to feel 
that there was no need to be in a hurry such a 
fine summer night, so the stars were shining in 
the quiet sky before they arrived at home. Mrs. 
Littlefield was at the gate, of course, looking 
anxiously up and down the road ; but Mr. Little- 
field and the other inmates of the house had dis- 
persed in various directions, to look for Anna 
Maria in all sorts of improbable places., as people 
are apt to do on such occasions. Mrs. Little- 
field’s exclamations of joy and thankfulness 
were too many to be repeated here ; but she found 
time in the midst of them to hope that “the child” 
had n’t given the minister much trouble. 

“I don’t know when I ’ve been so much 
pleased, Mrs. Littlefield,” said he, — which was 
perfectly true; and when the young people who 


ANNA MARIA’S VISIT TO THE MINISTER. 45 


read this story are as old as the minister, they 
will understand why the visit of a little child 
gave him more pleasure than that of the wisest 
person in his parish could possibly have done. 


£ittle (Esther 


S HE other day I saw a poor old woman in the 
street, and some children laughing at her 
and calling her names, as she trudged along with 
a great basket on her arm ; and it reminded me 
of a story I had to tell you. 

It is about a little girl, — such a 
one as goes to your school, perhaps, if 
there is a girl there who learns her lessons 
more quickly and recites them better than any 
of you, who is always ready to play at any game 
whenever you ask her, and who can run and 
laugh and shout with the best. And if she is 
pretty, too, — very pretty, so that you like her all 
the better for being good to look at, — then you 
know what sort of a girl little Esther Green 
was, and why all the children were so fond of her. 
Any one who passed the school-house at recess, 
or met the children going home, would hear her 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


47 


name oftener than any other, — a sure sign of 
popularity. “O Esther, look here!” — “Do come 
here, Esther!” — “Esther’s asked to sit with me 
this afternoon,” — “O, now, that’s real mean! You 
said you’d sit with me, Esther,” — and so on. 
They did not care that her mother was almost 
the poorest person in the village. The fact is, 
no one was very rich ; and if Mr. Taft lived in a 
white house two stories high, and Mrs. Green in 
a black one with but two rooms in it, it was 
doubtless only because people wanted more flour 
and meal and sugar than they did suits of clothes 
(for Mrs. Green was the tailoress) ; and that was 
no reason why Harry Taft should n’t find Esther 
the first spring flowers, and go shares with her in 
his berrying and nutting expeditions, and take 
her to school on his sled through the deep snows. 

One day, late in October, after school was dis- 
missed, the children still lingered playing about 
the yard, and Esther had mounted the great 
wood-pile with Harry. She could go anywhere 
Harry went, for his hand was always ready to 
pull her over the difficult places, though he stead- 
fastly discountenanced his sisters’ attempts at 


48 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


climbing, — saying he could n’t have a parcel of 
girls tagging after him. The wood-pile was 
nearly finished ; Harry was catching the .sticks 
that the boys threw up to him of those that lay 
scattered around, and Esther walked about very 
much at her ease, calling to the children in the 
yard and chattering to him. 

“O, I do believe it’ll snow soon, just look at 
the clouds ! Then you’d have out your sled, 
Harry, would n’t you? And O, if it should be a 
real big snow-storm like last winter, we’d all 
bring our dinners to school and stay all day. 
Would n’t it be nice ?” 

Harry looked up to answer, and saw her on 
the very edge of the wood-pile, and still stepping 
back. It was too late to save her ; in another 
moment she was lying on the ground among the 
loose sticks of wood. Now when a little girl 
has a fall, one of two things may generally be 
expected, — either that she will get up and laugh, 
or that she will get up and cry; but Esther did 
neither. She just lay where she had fallen, her 
eyes half closed, her lips slightly parted, and 
her face as white as an image of her made in 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


49 


snow would be. The children were frightened ; 
so was the master, who hurried out of the school- 
house to see what had happened; and when the 
doctor came, and found her lying on one of the 
benches and saying how dreadfully her back 
hurt her, he looked very serious, and went out 
to see where she fell, and came in and looked at 
her again, and finally they took her home in 
Farmer Handy’s wagon. 

Then there were long days and nights when 
she knew nothing but pain, or else raved wildly 
in a burning fever. She was at school, learn- 
ing her lessons, playing with the children, talk- 
ing to her mother ; but now and then she would 
put out her arms with a great start and the cry, 
“O, I’m falling, — catch me!” After that there 
was always a silence, as if she were really acting 
over again what had happened. Never since 
she was born had people talked about her so 
much as they did in the days that she lay so ill. 
The neighbors came in, one after another, to 
watch with her, or to bring her jellies and cus- 
tards ; and they shook their heads and said they 
“s’posed ’twould be a dreadful loss, — an only 


50 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


child, and her mother thinking everything of 
her.” Half a dozen times a day, too, there would 
come gentle knocks low down on the door, and 
when it was opened some little voice would ask, 
breathless, “O Mis’ Green, how’s Esther?” 

At last one day Esther opened her eyes after 
a long sleep, and began to ask all sorts of ques- 
tions, — what was the matter with her? how long 
had she been in bed ? and what was this dreadful 
pain? Then they told her that it was because 
she fell on a sharp stick of wood, and that the 
doctor said she must lie perfectly still and not 
try to move, or else she would n’t get well so 
fast. 

Now Mrs. Green had to be at work in the 
kitchen sometimes ; and Esther, left all to her- 
self, used to have very queer fancies. One was 
that she was going to die. Lizzie Strout had a 
fever last year and died, and now Esther had had 
a fever, so she would die too. But she would n’t 
say anything about it to mother till the time 
came ; then she should put her anns around her 
neck and kiss her good by ; and the tears began 
to come into her eyes thinking of the sadness 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


51 


of that parting. She would say good by to Lucy 
Blake, her best friend and desk mate, and to 
Harry, too, of course,— he would be sorry; and 
she would ask Lucy to forgive anything she had 
ever done or said to her that was unkind. Then 
how would it be at school without her? Lucy 
would have no one to share her desk, and she 
would be at the head of the spelling class when 
Esther was n’t there. And they would bring 
home her books and slate, — Lucy and she had 
carried home Lizzie’s — , and mother would cry 
as Mrs. Strout had done, and ask if they missed 
her at school. And she would be lying out in 
the graveyard with the stone at her head, marked 
“Esther. Only child.” There was no long name 
to put on her gravestone ; it would seem more 
like her than Lizzie’s did like Lizzie ; for some- 
how she never could think that “Elizabeth Par- 
menter, Youngest Daughter of Jonathan Strout 
and Mary his Wife,” was the Lizzie she knew so 
well. She would be lying there, and mother at 
home alone, setting only one cup and plate on 
the table, and missing her little girl. The tears 


52 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


came in a great flood then, and she had to stifle 
her sobs in the pillow. 

When Mrs. Green came back, she wanted to 
know, “What’s the matter with my Esther? Is 
the pain very bad, dear?” 

“Pretty bad,” Esther said. 

And then mother would sit down and talk to 
her, or tell her stories. She had to spare a good 
deal of time from her work to make herself 
entertaining. The school-children came in, 
though, every day or two, some of them, and 
Harry quite often at first. But it must be con- 
fessed that his visits were not entirely satis- 
factory. Having asked Esther how she did, and 
having said he hoped she would be better soon, 
he appeared to have nothing further to add, but 
would stand at the foot of the bed gazing at her 
and twirling his cap, with the occasional variety 
of dropping it and picking it up again, till it 
seemed that the silence could only be broken by 
Mrs. Green coming in, dishcloth or broom in 
hand, to say, “How’s your mother, Harry ?” 
Then he would answer quite briskly, “Pretty 
well, thank you,” and in a minute, as if a bright 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


53 


thought had struck him, “Well, good-by, 
Esther.” And Esther wondered at his silence, 
and Mrs. Green called him a mumchance. But 
I think she was a little hard on him ; for it must 
take one rather aback to go to see somebody 
who has long brown curls, and pink cheeks, 
and a tongue of the kind supposed to be hung 
in the middle, and find her with all her hair cut 
off, and her face so white you can hardly tell it 
from the pillow, as she lies there looking at you 
with great eyes, and answering by “yes” or “no,” 
or perhaps only by a little smile, when you speak 
to her. 

Lucy was the most frequent visitor. She 
used to sit on the edge of the bed and talk for an 
hour at a time; so that when she slipped down, 
saying she must go, and would come again soon, 
Esther’s “O yes, do!” was quite fervent. But 
as the pleasant spring weather came on, Lucy’s 
visits grew few and far between ; and when she 
did come she had a great deal to say about a 
certain Sarah Carroll, whom Esther didn’t know 
or care about, whose father had come to the 
village lately, and set up a shop where “fashion- 


54 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


able garments were cut and made at the lowest 
possible prices,” as Lucy quoted from the placard 
in the window. 

“Sarah is real nice. I wish you knew her, 
Esther,” she said. “But she does n’t study a bit ; 
and in class when she’s going to miss, she looks 
at Harry Taft, and he tells her. I think he likes 
her because she has your seat, — till you want it, 
you know.” 

In all these long months that Esther lay in 
bed she came to forget the idea that she was go- 
ing to die; for the pain grew less day by day, 
and the doctor’s visits ceased, and now she took 
another fancy. She thought she was getting 
crooked with lying in bed. 

“I must sit up, mother,” she would say, “to 
get out straight. I feel all hunched up, I ’ve 
been lying here so long.” 

“Why, dear, I guess I would n’t,” her mother 
always said. “I don’t believe you’re strong 
enough yet.” 

However, she talked so much and so often 
about it, that one day Mrs. Green lifted her up 
and put the pillows behind her. 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


55 


“And now I want to see how I look. Will 
you bring me the glass, mother ? I have n’t seen 
myself since my hair was cut off,” said Esther. 

“O, I ’ll tell you how you look, dear.” But 
that would n’t do at all, so Mrs. Green took 
down the glass from its nail and held it before 
her. Esther was n’t particularly pleased with 
her appearance. 

“How funny I look !” she said. “I ’ve been 
real sick, have n’t I ? And my shoulders are 
just the way Jane Harmon has hers in school, 
and Master Brown tells her not to. Why, 
mother!” she added, looking up quite startled, 
“I can’t put ’em down again. O, I ought to 
have sat up before!” 

“That has n’t anything to do with it, dear,” 
said Mrs. Green. “It ’s where you fell and hurt 
yourself. The doctor said you ’d have to show 
it — some.” 

“Then I know what makes the pain in my 
back,” said Esther, suddenly. “There’s a hump 
coming there ; I told you it felt so.” 

Mrs. Green turned away to hang up the glass ; 


56 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


but she came back to the bed in a minute, and, 
stooping to kiss her, said: — 

“You mustn’t think about it, my darling; 
nobody else will. The doctor was saying, at 
one time, that you would n’t get over it ; so you 
and I must be very glad things have turned out 
as they have.” 

Esther said nothing more, except present- 
ly that she wanted to lie down again ; 
and, when she was comfortably settled, 
Mrs. Green went into the kitchen, shut 
the door, and, putting her face in her 
apron, cried as if her heart would break. 
She had done that a good many times before, 
thinking of the “dearest, sweetest, prettiest child 
that ever lived,” — as she sobbed to herself, — 
who never again would stand up before her 
fair and straight and tall. Then, as she wiped 
her eyes, she wondered that Esther had taken it 
so quietly. However, when her mother lay down 
beside her that night, Esther seemed to have 
something on her mind. 

“Mother,” she said, “I’ve been thinking 
about old Betty Hoppin,— how the boys used to 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


57 


plague her and laugh at her. And the girls, too, 
sometimes, — I did once myself ; but when I was 
sorry and went after her to give her half my gin- 
gerbread, she said, so cross, 'I don’t want your 
cake, child.’ ” 

“Maybe she was n’t cross,” said Mrs. Green ; 
“Betty had a gruff voice. Poor soul ! She ’s 
well out of this world and gone to a better, I 
hope.” 

“Well, mother, does there always have to be 
an old woman to go round for the cold victuals ?” 

“Why, no, there don’t have to be, dear; but 
if there is an old woman that can’t work, she ’s 
likely to want ’em, I suppose.” 

“Because I was thinking, what if I should go 
about with a basket, sometime, as Betty did. I 
shall look like her, you know, — she was all 
crooked. And then if the children call after me, 
I could say : ‘Why, you must n’t do so ; I ’m 
Esther Green, who used to go to school with 
you ; don’t you remember ?’ O, but they ’d be 
grown up, too, would n’t they, and those child- 
ren would n’t know me ! They’d say, ‘Hallo, 
little old woman !’ ” 


58 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


“Why, Esther, child, you ’ll break my heart !” 
cried Mrs. Green ; and then added, gently, “You 
must n’t talk so, I can’t bear to hear you. And 
what makes you think of such things, dear? You 
won’t go round with a basket while you have 
mother to take care of you, will you?” So she 
talked and comforted her. But long after Esther 
had fallen quietly asleep, trusting in 
“mother’s” ability to care for her, Mrs. 

Green lay thinking that the time might 
come when she would have to leave her, 
and praying that no one might ever be 
cruel to her girl, but that all might be more kind 
and gentle to her, just because of her sad infirm- 
ity, and for His sake who pitied the maimed 
and the halt and the blind. 

The doctor said Esther was getting better, 
but still she suffered a good deal at times all 
through the summer and autumn ; and 
when there was no pain she was very 

weak, so that the next winter found her 
only strong enough to sit up in bed. 
And in the first days of that cold win- 
ter the wolf came to the door. Not a wolf, but 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


59 


the wolf; the one that goes ravening through 
the world, always devouring and never satisfied. 
He finds his prey among the poorest of the peo- 
ple who work with their hands for a living; and 
when such a one falls ill, or is disabled from any 
cause, he will howl and prowl about that house, 
almost sure of a victim there. The name of the 
wolf is Poverty. Now Mrs. Green had the 
rheumatism in one arm and hand so badly that 
she could n’t do any odd jobs of washing and 
ironing that might be offered her, nor finish the 
piece of homespun that Mr. Carroll had agreed 
to buy. Nobody had asked her to make it up 
into jackets and trousers and coats, because 
every one preferred to be fashionably fitted ; 
which was rather bad for Mrs. Green, although 
it is delightful to think how elegant they must 
all have looked. 

“And there ’s my stockings,” said Mrs. 
Green, one day, looking at the blue yarn and 
knitting-needles. “I wish I ’d begun ’em a little 
sooner.” , 

“Mother, why can’t I knit?” asked Esther. 


60 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


“I should like to, and I have sometimes for fun, 
you know.” 

Mother had no objections, so Esther began 
to knit in earnest, and was highly delighted with 
her self-imposed task. 

“I ’ll get ’em done for you this week, 
mother,” she promised. “And then I shall want 
to make some more. You ’ll want two or three 
pairs, won’t you? I like to knit so!” 

“I ’ll want as many as you ’ll make me,” said 
Mrs. Green, pleased to see her so happy. 
“There ’s plenty of yarn.” 

But Esther found another customer. The 
doctor came in and saw her at work. 

“What! Knitting stockings!” said he. 
“They’re for me, I suppose. For mother? O, 
that ’s too bad ! Mother ’s got enough, I know, 
and I’ve no little girl to keep me tidy. Now, 
won’t you make me some when you ’ve finished 
that pair?” 

“O yes, sir. Thank you,” said Esther. 

“No, it ’s I that ’ll thank you,” said the doc- 
tor ; “though I should n’t expect to pay for them 
that way. You can just calculate how much 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


61 


yarn there was in them, Mrs. Green, and how 
much time it took.” 

“Why, Doctor, Esther would be glad to make 
’em for you for nothing. She knows how good 
you ’ve been to her.” 

“But I should n’t be glad to have her. I ’ve 
never worn any thing yet that was n’t paid for, 
Mrs. Green, and you would n’t advise me to 
begin now, would you?” 

So it was settled that Esther should fit the 
doctor out with stockings ; and she was very 
proud of helping her mother by earning some 
money, though she did n’t know, and Mrs. Green 
would have been very sorry to have her know, 
how much it was needed. By and by people 
began to talk about it in the village, and some 
one would say: “Mis’ Green’s Esther’s knitting 
stockings to sell. I should n’t wonder if she 
was poorly off just now, what with the rheum- 
atism and all. Perhaps I ’d better get Esther to 
knit some for the boys ; my hands are full 
enough, goodness knows.” 

And then there were other people who 
“guessed Mis’ Green was n’t very provident.” 


62 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


They were the same persons, of course, who used 
to be “afraid Mis’ Green was teaching Esther to 
think too much of her outside/’ when she walked 
into church behind her mother, with new ribbons 
on her hat, and looking as sweet as a pink. 

However, Esther had plenty to do, and the 
wolf was fairly driven off that time by a little 
girl’s knitting-needle. Mrs. Green’s hands got 
well, and the doctor said Esther would be up be- 
fore next summer, but I can’t tell about that, for 
my story ends here. Perhaps the doctor was 
mistaken. Perhaps — because, even if she were 
up, she never could be well and strong again — 
the Great Physician in mercy laid His hand upon 
her, and they put up a little stone in the grave- 
yard, marked “Esther. Only child.” Or per- 
haps the thread of life, though slender, was 
tenacious, and it is the mother who has slept this 
many a year, while the village has grown into 
a great city, where iron fingers are making 
thousands of pairs of stockings faster than 
Esther could knit one. And Esther, littleEsther 
(she would always be that, you know), lonely 
and old and poor, creeps about with a great bas- 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


63 


ket on her arm, while the children — no, the 
children’s children — of the boys and girls who 
went to school with her, point at her and shout 
after her in the streets, “Hallo, old Polly! how 
are all the folks?” — “Going it two-forty to-day, 
aren’t you?” — “What you got in your basket?” 
“Please give us some cold victuals !” 


Ctjc <£t)ili>ren of tt)c Desert 


OT Bedouins, but two little French girls 
who lived more than a hundred years ago 
in the south of France. The desert was, in 
the language of that time, any place far from 
human habitations, where, tracked by the soldiers 
and with a price set upon their heads, the Pro- 
testants dared to meet and pray. 

The government in France wanted all its 
subjects to be Roman Catholics, and those who 
worshipped in other fashion did so at the risk 
of being imprisoned or hanged. At one time 
there was a king, Henry IV., who published a 
decree called the Edict of Nantes, which said 
that the French might be of whatever religion 
they liked. That was in 1598, and those were 
good times for the Protestants. But not a century 
later, another king, Louis XIV., took all that 
back and said, No, the French were to be of the 
religion that he liked ; and then bad times began 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


65 


again. They lasted long, for his successor 
thought just as he did. 

In those days, the thing was not to let any- 
body know where you were going when you set 
off to “meeting” — as the Protestants called it. 
For if people were found singing psalms or 
hearing sermons anywhere but in the parish 
church that was either the end of them alto- 
gether, or else they were sent far away from 
home and friends to toil as galley-slaves until 
they died. 

The ministers, too, at that time, wore no 
black coat and white necktie by which everybody 
might recognize them at first sight. They were 
far more likely to put on a carter’s frock or 
shoulder a peddler’s pack as they wandered 
through the land disguised, hunted, hardly 
knowing where they should lay their heads from 
night to night. The soldiers who were ordered 
to break up the meetings were especially on the 
look-out for the ministers ; and if they were 
caught, hanging was thought almost too good 
for them. 

Still, from time to time, the persecution 


66 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


would relax after examples had been made 
which, it was hoped, would frighten the 
Protestants into other behavior. But they mere- 
ly grew bolder during the respite ; and 
instead of holding their meetings at dead 
of night, the assembly would be by day, and 
then the children could go, too. 

Jeanne and Madeleine Morel were always 
glad to go into the “desert/’ It was going to 
meeting and to a picnic at the same time ; for the 
services were in the open air, in some place 
where the people could all sit around and hear; 
and they carried dinner with them and ate it on 
the grass. So mother was in the kitchen all the 
day before, busy with baking, and the children 
helped, or thought they did, which was the same 
thing for them. Jeanne at least knew how to 
wash the cups and platters, though it was more 
than Madeleine could do to think of washing her 
hands before proceeding to business. As she 
kneaded the bit of dough that had been given her 
to make a little cake of her own, she cried glee- 
fully: 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


67 


“Oh, mother! It’s getting so brown, I verily 
believe it's going to be gingerbread !” 

Mother’s cakes, at all events, turned out what 
they were meant to be, and came from the oven 
of the same golden hue and diffusing the same 
fragrance that the children remembered as far 
back as they could recollect anything. Then they 
were told, “If you have some now you will not 
have so many to-morrow,” and they always 
thought they would not want so many to-mor- 
row. 

One day these preparations were made on 
an unusual scale in the Morel family. The 
mother wished to do herself credit ; for, with the 
notice that the assembly would be held at such 
a time and place, had come also a message that 
the minister would sleep at their house. It was 
not the town-crier who spread such news ; the 
people whispered it to each other secretly ; and 
when the day arrived they stole forth at the 
dawning from town and country-side by hun- 
dreds. That was by no means so often as once a 
week, but only when the minister came that way, 
and when there seemed to be no danger threaten- 


68 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


ing. There were always devoted men ready to 
help the pastors of the desert on their long jour- 
neys, and everywhere they were gladly received 
among their own people ; though they never slept 
twice in the same house, lest suspicion should 
be aroused. 

If the minister was an honored guest in the 
Morels’ humble dwelling, he, on his part, well 
knew what a splendid hospitality was offered 
him. No gold could pay for the shelter of that 
friendly roof. The only return he could make 
was the fervent prayer he uttered, that the Gos- 
pel and he, its unworthy servant, might bring 
peace unto the house and not a sword. For, if 
malignant eyes had watched him on his way, the 
soldiers might come to arrest him, and the still- 
ness of the night be broken by the tramp of 
horses’ hoofs, by the sound of arms, by an im- 
perious call, “In the name of the King!” Then 
the young preacher would be condemned to 
death, Jean Morel and his wife to perpetual im- 
prisonment for having sheltered him, and the 
children would be taught in a convent to forget 
the meetings in the desert. The minister, in his 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


69 


prayer, mentioned the little ones with an especial 
petition ; and they, if they had no distinct idea 
of what was meant by “growing up as the pol- 
ished corners of the temple,” still listened de- 
voutly with folded hands. 

On these “desert” expeditions, Jeanne 
and Madeleine thought it delightful to be up and 
out so early. They found pretty flowers on their 
long walk, and saw squirrels in the trees, and 
birds’-nests in the bushes, while the picnic dinner 
was, of course, a great feature of the day. Peo- 
ple like the Morels, who, though they were not 
rich, still had everything they needed, were apt 
to take a heavy basket into the desert, and when 
dinner-time came the children would be sent with 
good things to some of their poorer neigh- 
bors. Jeanne and Madeleine liked that 
also ; only there was a certain old wom- 
an to whom Madeleine never cared to 
go. She was really a good old creature, 
but Madeleine thought she must be a witch be- 
cause she had two long, sharp teeth, and mum- 
bled strangely when she talked. So. if the old 
woman called her “a little dear,” and put out her 


70 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


hand to take hold of her, Madeleine backed away 
in a great hurry, and ran to her mother as fast 
as she could. 

The services themselves would have been 
much too long for the children if they had had 
nothing wherewith to beguile the time; but to 
take something sweet to meeting was a custom 
which dated from days when they were not of 
an age to be left alone at home nor likely to be 
ornaments to society when they went with their 
parents. And if there were acquaintances of the 
family who thought “the Morel girls” old enough 
now to behave properly without such induce- 
ment, it must still be said to their credit that 
they behaved as well as they knew how. They 
drew forth their hidden stores with the utmost 
secrecy, turned their heads away when they nib- 
bled, and showed each other what they had left 
with so many precautions that the Elders might 
have surprised them in the very act a dozen times 
had they felt so minded. 

Madeleine stood greatly in awe of the Elders. 
At every assembly some of them got up and told 
what people had been doing that they ought not 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


71 


to have done — how this one had allowed his child 
to be christened by the cure or that one had 
yielded to vanity and given a dance in his barn. 
Vanity, in one form or another, was a terrible 
pitfall to the good people. Even little Made- 
leine knew what the word meant and felt some 
uneasiness on that score, conscience suggesting 
that she thought a good deal of new shoes and 
was perhaps unduly particular as to the color 
of her apron. She was glad, therefore, when 
the Elders had done talking and the sermon be- 
gan. She did not understand it but that was of 
no consequence, especially at the afternoon meet- 
ing when, with her father’s arm for a pillow, she 
let herself be lulled to sleep by the sound of the 
preacher’s voice. Her father thought that the 
best thing she could do, and he never moved for 
fear of breaking the rest that would make the 
little feet more willing for the long way home. 
It was only when the minister said, ‘‘Let us 
sing, in conclusion,” that Madeleine began to 
look up. 

But on the day we are telling of they never 
sang that hymn. It was customary at these 


72 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


meetings to post men as sentinels to give alarm 
if anything suspicious were seen; and just as 
the minister had said, “Let us sing, in con — ’’one 
of the sentinels rushed into the midst with the 
dreadful cry, “The soldiers! The soldiers !” 

The whole assembly started up in wild alarm, 
and the people took to flight in every direction ; 
but in all the confusion and horror Jeanne, good 
little housewife that she was, raised her small 
voice and said, “Oh, mother, the basket! You’re 
forgetting the basket!” 

In the excitement no one found out just 
where the soldiers had been seen; and Jean 
Morel and some of his townspeople took, at a 
venture, what they thought would be the safest 
way home. Having gone a good distance un- 
molested, they had become calm again and be- 
gan to think it was a false alarm, when suddenly, 
at a turn of the road, they came face to face 
with the enemy. It was a mere handful of men 
but, armed, they were a match for many times 
their number. They wanted only a few of the 
Protestants to make examples of, because if they 
had taken whole congregations the prisons and 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


73 


galleys would soon have been full to overflowing, 
so that this was just the sort of opportunity to 
be turned to good account. 

Both parties stood still, the hunters and the 
hunted, looking each other in the eyes, triumph 
on the one side, terror on the other, and then 
occurred something of which different accounts 
were told afterwards. The soldiers gave 
their version in several ways — somebody had 
thrown a stone, had pointed a pistol, had insulted 
the officer — while the Protestants simply declared 
that they had done none of those things. But 
what there was no disputing was the fact that 
at a word of command the muskets went up to 
the shoulder and the next instant a rattling dis- 
charge followed. They were random shots, but 
one found a mark. Madeleine felt her father’s 
hand tighten on hers and then relax, as 
he staggered and fell forward. The Pro- 
testants dispersed like a flock of startled 
birds, some of the soldiers sprang in pur- 
suit, some came up to guard those that were 
left. They found only a man lying in 
the road, a woman who had thrown herself upon 


74 THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 

him, and two children standing by, wide-eyed 
in terrified amazement. 


• PART II. 

Soon after that, the convent of St. Ursula re- 
ceived two little new inmates. Their arrival had 
not been expected with much pleasure, for the 
Sisters of St. Ursula — a dozen ladies or so — had 
lived for a long while all by themselves, and they 
thought children would be a great care and 
trouble ; they supposed children always were, 
they said, and sighed. “Of course, we shall be 
glad to bring them up properly,” they added, 
“and if we succeed in doing so, it will be a re- 
ward to us for all our labor and pains,” and they 
sighed again. 

But when they saw the little girls, clasping 
each other's hands and pressing close together, 
almost too frightened to whisper “Yes, madam,” 
and “No, madam,” if they were spoken to, they 
felt sorry for them, and forgfot all about the 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


75 


trouble, though it was greater even than they 
had thought. 

For the first thing of all was to make the 
children feel at home and happy, and that was 
easier said than done. The Sisters took them 
into the chapel, where there were beautiful win- 
dows, all blue and red and green, and Jeanne 
and Madeleine thought it wonderful, and looked 
around for a minute, and then were just as 
downcast as before. So one of the Sisters set 
up two candles before a pretty picture and said 
the children should light them ; and they were 
interested until they got the candles lighted, then 
they did not care about them any more, and 
turned away. After that, the Sisters thought 
they would leave the little girls alone and may- 
be they would play together ; so they led them 
into the garden and said that now they could run 
about ; and then they themselves went back into 
the house and looked out of the windows to see 
what would happen. But, dear me ! the children 
were not running about at all ; they kept just as 
close to each other as ever, and walked slowly 


76 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


along with their heads down; or else they stood 
still, wiping away the tears with their hands. 

Children who have been homesick know why 
Jeanne and Madeleine did not like to look at the 
roses and mignonette and pinks ; no, nor even 
at the trees full of peaches trained against the 
wall. They felt altogether too unhappy to care 
for things of that sort. 

“What shall we do for them?” said the good 
Sisters, much distressed. And they fell to ran- 
sacking their shelves and boxes in search of 
pictures or anything that might amuse them. 

It would take too long to tell all that went 
on while the children were getting accustomed 
to their new surroundings. It seemed almost 
as if Madeleine would never be used to them. 
She might be tolerably cheerful by day; but just 
as surely as the sun set and the shades of evening 
came over the land, a shadow crept, too, over 
her little face ; it was at night that she missed 
her mother most. 

The Sisters used to say, “Oh, come, Made- 
leine, look at Jeanne! She doesn’t cry.” Truth 
to tell, Jeanne would have liked to, only when 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


77 


the ladies were so kind she thought it would 
not do for them both to cry, and, as Madeleine 
was the younger, she had the best right. 

Sometimes Madeleine did not begin her 
weeping till she got into 'bed. Then, when she 
felt it coming, she thought, “I won’t let anybody 
hear me,” and the tears would flow in silence un- 
til, all unexpectedly, her breast heaved up with 
a great sob quite loud, and after that there came 
another and another — there was no stopping 
them. If the Sister who was in the next room 
to where the children slept kept perfectly quiet, 
she presently heard a rustling, and saw, through 
the open door, a little white figure gliding by. 
That was Jeanne, who had got out of her own 
bed and went to clamber up on Madeleine’s. 
Then there followed consoling whisperings, dur- 
ing which the sobs grew fainter and fainter, and 
finally, when the Sister peeped into the room, 
the children had lain down together; the cover- 
let tossed as they put their arms around each 
other, and then all was still. 

In the daytime Jeanne and Madeleine were 
taught to sew, and they learned little prayers be- 


78 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


sides, one of which was about their mother and 
“ the true faith.” They did not know what chat 
meant, — though they had heard the words often 
enough — the minister in the desert used to talk 
of “the true faith,” — but they liked the prayer 
just because it was about their mother, and they 
repeated it with so much fervor that the Sisters 
were quite delighted with them, and called them 
“dear, good little girls.” 

In fact, so far from finding them troublesome, 
the Sisters of St. Ursula grew extremely fond 
of them, and were always trying to think of 
something that would please “our children,” as 
they said. The children would like to help gather 
fruit or pick flowers ; they must see this and they 
must taste that ; and if the Sisters had not been 
the gentle, amiable persons that they were, they 
might have ended by quarrelling among them- 
selves as to which of them the children loved 
best. 

The children loved them all, however, and 
did everything they could to please them, and if 
only Madeleine had been quite strong and well, 
there would have been nothing more to wish for. 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


79 


But even after she had left off crying at night, 
there still was something wrong; she had no ap- 
petite for the nice things that they wanted her 
to eat, and she grew thin and pale.. Her sewing 
did not get on nearly so fast as Jeanne's, half 
the time she was only holding it listlessly on 
her lap, and when the Sisters thought she was 
tired they told her to go into the garden. She 
liked to be there, though she had never yet begun 
to run about. She went always to the same 
rustic seat where she could watch the doves flut- 
tering up to the convent roof and down again, 
or spreading their white wings and starting on 
a longer flight. It gave her a strange feeling 
to look up and hear the beating of their pinions 
as they soared away — it seemed as if she must 
go, too. She supposed that they could fly very 
far, and once, when one of the Sisters sat beside 
her, she asked if they could fly as far as the 
little golden clouds where the sun had set. 

“Oh, no!” the Sister said. 

“Is that Heaven?” asked Madeleine. 

“No,” said the Sister. But then she talked 
to her of Heaven and all the blessed saints who 


80 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


lived there, and said that Madeleine and she must 
hope to be with them by and by; but she forgot 
some one with whom the little girl would also 
like to be. 

“And father,” Madeleine added, gently. 

When the soldiers fired and her father fell, 
her mother had cried out that he was dead; and 
afterwards, in the last night that the children 
had spent with her, in a strange place with the 
soldiers all around, she had told them that dead 
meant gone to Heaven. So they knew where 
their father was, and their mother they supposed 
to be at home. It was just as well they thought 
so. 

One day there rumbled into the court-yard a 
splendid carriage in which a beautiful lady sat. 
She was a countess, who had come to stay at the 
convent for a while. During her visit she, too, 
grew fond of the children, and asked the Sisters 
to let her take them home with her, because a 
change would be good for Madeleine. The Sis- 
ters consented ; and Jeanne and Madeleine 
though they were sorry to leave the kind ladies, 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


81 


were yet pleased to drive away in the grand 
carriage with its four horses. 

In the course of the journey the countess 
thought, as she had often thought before, how 
sad it was that the little girls had no father and 
had been taken from their mother, who, poor 
woman, was shut up in prison and weeping for 
her children. She looked at Madeleine, so thin 
and pale, and said to herself, “She is pining for 
home.” And then she thought that perhaps the 
governor, if she asked him, would release the 
poor mother and let the children return to her. 
At first she was frightened at the idea, thinking, 
what would the Sisters of St. Ursula say if she 
did that, instead of sending Jeanne and Made- 
leine back to them? But the further she got 
from the convent, the less she thought about the 
Sisters, and the more about the poor children 
and their mother. And finally she decided to 
speak to the governor at the first opportunity. 

The countess’s chateau was by the sea, and 
Madeleine grew stronger there. The fresh 
breezes and, more than all, the promise of going 
home again, did her much good ; for the coun- 


82 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


tess had told the children of her plan, because 
they, too, must ask the governor to give them 
back their mother. He was coming soon to the 
chateau and, in the meanwhile, many other 
ladies and gentlemen visited the countess, and 
all wanted to see “her little Protestants/’ as they 
called them. So the children’s sober gowns, that 
they had worn at home and at the convent, were 
laid aside, and the countess had them dressed in 
very pretty clothes. Madeleine liked her silk 
stockings and high-heeled shoes, her white dress 
and blue ribbons ; and when she was alone in the 
room she walked up and down, passing the long 
mirror and turning her head to see a pretty little 
girl who was there and whom she found very 
good company. There is no saying how shocked 
the Elders would have been if they had witnessed 
such behavior, but Madeleine had forgotten the 
Elders and their dislike of vanity. Sometimes, 
too, she stepped close up to the mirror and 
rubbed her cheeks as hard as she could, and then 
looked to see how red they were. That, however, 
was not vanity. The countess had said her 
mother would not know her unless she got her 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


83 


color again ; and it was only so that her mother 
might know her at the first glance that Madeleine 
wanted her cheeks to be very red indeed. 

The visitors at the chateau liked little girls, 
they said, and in return Jeanne and Madeleine 
liked the visitors. They were magnificent peo- 
ple, dressed in silk and satin and lace. The 
gentlemen had buckles on their shoes, and wore 
swords with golden hilts ; and the ladies had 
feathers on their heads, and were very fine to 
see. Sometimes one of them let Madeleine hold 
her fan, and then she waved it to and fro just 
as the ladies did, and they told each other to 
look at her, and said, “Isn’t she a little dear?” 
And when they said that she liked it better than 
when, in the desert, the old woman with the two 
long teeth had said it. 

While some of the company were thus occu- 
pied with Madeleine, others asked Jeanne ques- 
tions. She was fond of talking and made her 
replies in a serious manner, like a grown-up per- 
son, so that every now and then there would be 
a burst of laughter, because the ladies and gentle- 
men thought it very funny when a little girl held 


84 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


forth so gravely. And then still others would 
ask what Jeanne had said, and when it was 
repeated there was fresh laughter, and they tried 
to make her talk more. She soon began to sup- 
pose that she had the wisdom of Solomon, since 
everyone was so anxious to hear what she had 
to say. It was thoughtless in the ladies and 
gentlemen to flatter the children in that fashion ; 
but, at the same time, they really felt kindly to- 
ward them, and hoped the governor would liber- 
ate their mother and let them live with her again. 

At last, one day, the governor came. He 
ruled all that part of the country and had been 
very cruel to the Protestants. It was he that 
had had them hanged or made to toil as galley- 
slaves, and he, too, had ordered out the soldiers 
who had killed the children’s father. But they 
knew nothing of all that. They only knew that 
he was the governor who could let them go home 
again, aitd they were not afraid of him. They 
recited the petition which the countess had 
taught them, that he would please let them go to 
their mother ; and then Madeleine stood close be- 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


85 


side him and played with the tassels of his hand- 
some sword. 

The countess joined her entreaties to the 
children's ; and because the governor made ob- 
jections, she insisted. The conversation went 
on until Jeanne thought it must be high time for 
her to speak; so, when the governor chanced to 
say some words which were often used in those 
days but which were oaths, Jeanne remarked 
suddenly : 

“You shouldn’t say that. It’s wicked.” 

Now, the other people had laughed when she 
told them they ought not to say such things, but 
the governor did not like it at all. 

“Hoity, toity !” he exclaimed, in a sharp 
voice. “This is a pretty good one! How long 
since little girls have taught manners?” 

Then Jeanne hung her head and felt that she 
had spoken too quickly that time ; and Madeleine 
retreated to the countess’s side very much fright- 
ened and ready to cry, for she thought if the 
governor were angry he would not allow them to 
go home. 

Fortunately, he was not so angry as that. He 


86 THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT . 

went on talking to the countess, and said that 
the Protestants were a hypocritical, preaching 
people, and very obstinate and unmanageable. 
For he never perceived that he was cruel, but 
thought it was their fault that he treated them 
badly, and that they deserved it for going into 
the “desert” instead of to the parish church. Still, 
though he disliked that way of theirs so much, 
he consented to overlook it in Mrs. Morel, and 
said that the children might go home. 

They were so glad ! Madeleine thanked the 
governor of her own accord when he went away. 

“Good-by, Mr. Governor,” she said, “and 
thank you for your kindness.” 

“And what will you do for me in return?” 
he inquired. 

He was bending toward her, and prob- 
ably meant that she might give him a kiss ; 
but she did not understand it so. Wondering 
what she could do for him, and then on a sudden 
remembering something, her little face was 
bright with a smile as she answered: 

“I’ll pray God to bless you, Mr. Governor.” 

That idea seemed to please him, and he kissed 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


87 


her forehead. But when he turned to Jeanne, he 
put up his eye-glass and looked at her as if she 
were some natural curiosity. 

“This is the one who calls people wicked!” he 
observed. “Well, you may give my compliments 
to your mother, and tell her she might teach her 
daughter to be civil.” 

Jeanne, however, had no need to repeat that. 
Mother did not require a message from the gov- 
ernor to perceive if there was anything amiss 
with her little girls. In the midst of all her joy 
at having them again, she suspected that their 
fine friends had been spoiling them, and took 
frequent occasion to say that “children should be 
seen but not heard,” lest Jeanne, at the rate she 
was going on, might think fit some day to re- 
prove the Elders and preach to the Minister! 
Madeleine was so happy to be at home again that 
she did not miss her pretty clothes. Her mother 
easily persuaded her that better than little feet 
in silk stockings were little feet ready to run in 
others’ service; and that if little hands, instead 
of waving a fan about, ministered kindly to some 
poor old woman, her thanks and blessings would 


88 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 


be worth more, after all, than praises from hand- 
somer people. 

So the children lived happily. It was sad, 
indeed, that no one could give them back their 
father. But Mrs Morel took courage, as people 
always should do in their misfortunes, and she 
earned her own living and the children’s. And 
later, when they grew up, they both married pas- 
tors — but not pastors of the desert, for by that 
time there was another king who said that the 
Protestants should be persecuted no more. Then, 
instead of wandering far away to their assem- 
blies, they built little temples, as they called them, 
close at hand, and there they sang and preached 
without further disturbance. 

But Jeanne and Madeleine, as long as they 
lived, never forgot the people who had been kind 
to them. Some years after, those very people 
were in great distress and danger. That was dur- 
ing the French Revolution, which began in 1789. 
A revolution is a turning round, and things were 
at that time so turned round that the people who 
had ruled were trodden under foot, and 
those who had been rich were poor, the 


THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT . 


89 


king was deposed, and France became a 
republic. And in the same way that 
once the royal government had said, “There 
are very nice churches, and if people won’t go 
to them they must be hanged,” the revolutionists 
said, “We have made an excellent republic, and 
those who don’t like it shall have their heads cut 
off.” The people in the chateaux and convents 
did not like it, and so they were in great trouble. 
If there was ever anything that Jeanne and 
Madeleine could do for them no doubt they did 
it ; and if they could do nothing, at least they 
pitied them, remembering the compassion they 
themselves had found in a gay world that passed 
for very heartless. 

They told their children and grandchildren 
about the convent and the chateau, and though 
Madeleine had cried so. at the convent, she al- 
ways recollected it as a very pleasant place. Long, 
long years after, the sight of a little string of 
beads — a broken rosary — would call up a pic- 
ture, faint but fair, out of her distant childhood 
— the shadowy forms of the good women who 
had been Sisters indeed to her, the chapel with 


90 THE CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 

the gorgeous light from the painted windows, 
the convent garden, and the white doves flying. 


Uncle 3osepf? 


2 C IS parents died when he was a baby and 
his sister had brought him up. They 
lived in Paris, — Joseph, his sister, her hus- 
band, and the two children, a boy and girl 

who thought everything of their young uncle; 
for Joseph, though he was earning his own 
living after a fashion, was only sixteen 
years old. You know what doing a thing 

after a fashion is — a sort of half and half 

way that does not amount to much. Unfortu- 
nately that was Joseph’s way, to judge from 
what his sister and her husband said. “Joseph 
never will be good for anything.” “He is so 
lazy.” “He’s so stupid.” “What will a boy like 
that ever come to?” And he was apprenticed 
to a carpenter whose opinion of him was no 
higher than theirs. He shrugged his shoulders 
and shook his head, when Joseph’s capabilities 
were mentioned, and so it was quite plain the boy 


92 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


was not what his relations had a right to expect. 

Perhaps, that being the case, it was not sur- 
prising that when he went once a week to spend 
the day at his sister’s, he should be greeted with 
a running fire of the following sort: 

“Well, Joseph, have you been as idle as ever, 
since last time?” “How often has the master 
blown you up?” “I’ll warrant you forgot to do 
that errand! — Of course!” Then if, overcome by 
the sense of his failings, he hung his head and 
looked unusually sheepish, it was: “Don’t be so 
awkward, Joseph ! When will you learn to hold 
yourself like a man?” 

You can imagine he was glad to slink out 
at the door where the children were making 
signs to him, and spend his morning in the back 
yard. There, Uncle Joseph shone. He was 
stupid sometimes, there is no denying it, but he 
was not always so. Jean and Marie, as already 
said, thought highly of him and could not un- 
derstand why he should be so scolded ; with them 
he was good. Such pretty boats as he made for 
Jean to sail in the rain-water butt ; and then the 
fan he brought to Marie once ! It was of slender 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


93 


bits of wood with a pink tape run through at the 
top and ornaments in gilt paper neatly pasted on. 
Uncle Joseph had given himself a world of 
trouble with it, as his brother-in-law and sister 
well knew. “Ah, Joseph,” they cried, when they 
saw it, “if you would take half the pains at 
your trade! But that’s like you — frittering away 
your time over nothing!” 

The fact was Joseph did not like his trade and 
wanted to be a soldier, though his sister would 
not hear of it. She was fond of him if she did 
find so much fault; the scoldings were intended 
for his ultimate benefit ; but turning soldier could 
bring no good either soon or late, she thought. 
So he was told not to talk nonsense, and assured 
that even if the conscription took him they would 
find ways and means to get him off. Poor Joseph ! 
But he did not give it up, for all that. His 
apprenticeship would be over that summer, and 
he said to himself : “I’ll run away to Algeria and 
enlist there.” 

That was the place of all others to become a 
soldier — a Captain — a General — a Marshal of 
France. Yes, the Marshal’s staff had been won 


94 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


under those glaring skies, and what had hap- 
pened before might happen again. Joseph had 
found some books at the carpenter’s that told 
the story of the arms of France, and described 
the lands where the tri-colored flag had floated 
and the eagle soared ; and he repeated it all 
to the children, with the aid of imagination when 
memory failed. 

‘Tell us of where you’re going, Uncle 
Joseph,” they would say, and he was always 
ready. He told of the soldier in Algeria, scour- 
ing the plains on a fleet horse, fighting with wild 
Arab tribes and invariably putting them to rout; 
and then of birds with rainbow’ feathers, of de- 
licious fruits and lovely flowers and all sorts of 
beautiful things such as the children had never 
dreamed of. And they drew closer to him with 
wishful eyes. 

“O, Uncle Joseph, what will you bring us?” 

He would bring them anything for the ask- - 
ing; a velocipede — some canaries — a monkey — 

. whatever they liked. Was there not everything 
in that happy land? He looked up at the patch 
of blue over the narrow court and fancied how 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


95 


he should come back some day with honor and 
glory. A whole triumphal procession went by 
where the white clouds sailed slowly, and amidst 
trumpet sound and waving banners and prancing 
horses, was a hero — Joseph. They would be 
proud of him then ! They would be sorry then 
that they had called him stupid! When he had 
just been scolded he was apt to dwell somewhat 
upon that triumph ; so long, indeed, that Marie 
had to pull him by the elbow. 

“Uncle Joseph, say ! Are there parasols there ? 
Will you bring me a blue parasol?” 

But it was not only an imaginary paradise 
they lived in. There was a real one that they 
went to in the afternoon ; the childrens’ paradise 
in Paris, the Elysian Fields. Uncle Joseph 
looked forward all the week to taking his little 
niece and nephew there. He gave them a ride 
on the wooden horses that turn in gav circles 
amongst the trees, or took places for them in one 
of the little carriages drawn by four white goats 
that trot up and down the paths, and when they 
were tired of everything else they all sat on a 
bench together to watch the stream of fine car- 


96 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


riages go by. As they sat there, there would come 
an old woman with a large tin box before her, 
and a rattle that she sounded while she called: 
“Pleasures, Pleasures, two for a sou.” Since 
that was not dear, as pleasures go, Uncle Joseph 
had his sou ready and the old woman opened 
her box and gave a cake to each of the children. 

Now, you wouldn’t suppose that Joseph need 
do anything to be scolded for just then and there, 
would you? Well, this was what happened, at 
all events. Marie, crunching her pleasure, pushed 
her hoop idly to and fro until, on a sudden, as 
if it had been bewitched, out it flew into the 
middle of the road in front of a carriage that 
was going as fast as the horses could draw it. 

“My hoop!” screamed Marie, dashing after 
it. And, 

“Marie!” cried Joseph, as he pulled her out, 
just in time, from between the horses’ feet. And, 

“Idiot!” said a cross voice at the carriage 
window, “Can’t you take better care of a child 
than that?” And, 

“Stupid fellow!” said the coachman, glaring 
at him from the box. 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


97 


Then the carriage rolled off, and Joseph 
picked up the hoop and went back to the bench 
with Marie. All he said was: 

“You must never run out in the road in that 
way, again. You would have been killed in an- 
other minute.” 

“And when you’re killed, you’re all bloody,” 
added Jean, solemnly. 

Marie looked at her new clothes and thought 
that would never do. 

“I’m glad I wasn’t killed, for they’d have said 
it was your fault, Uncle Joseph,” she remarked. 

After that, it was time to think of going home, 
Uncle Joseph in the middle, Marie holding one 
arm and Jean the other. This had its inconven- 
iences, because Jean would give a hop at one 
moment and Marie a skip at the next ; and be- 
tween them Uncle Joseph could hardly walk 
straight. Or one of them would pull, “Come 
this way!” and the other would tug, “No. this 
way!” so that had they been stronger he might 
have been torn in two. As it was, he simply 
kept on and dragged them after him. 

“I can’t go both your ways, so I shall go my 


98 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


own,” he declared ; and they laughed and 
thought it a good enough joke to repeat at the 
next corner. 

The little treats he gave the children — the 
cakes and rides — did not cost much in them- 
selves, but in the course of a few times they 
mounted up ; and so when, after one of these 
pleasant afternoons, there came a holiday that 
the parents meant to spend in the country, 
Joseph got into trouble again. 

“If you want to come, too,” they said, ‘‘that 
franc you had a few weeks ago will just pay for 
your ticket out and back.” 

And the franc was gone! He could only 
look down at his clumsy shoes in silence. He 
did not tell that he had spent his money for the 
children, because that no doubt was as foolish 
as anything else he might have done with it. 
His conscience warned him that he ought to 
have put it into the little tin savings-bank they 
had given him at New- Year, where it would 
have done no one any harm — or any good. If 
he could have said it was there, they would have 
praised him with a “Well done, Joseph, you’ll 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


99 


be a rich man one of these days.” But no! he 
never did the right thing ; so they only said if he 
played “heads or tails” with every boy he met in 
the street, and stopped to drink lemonade at all 
the corners, they did not know what was to be- 
come of him. 

In the mean time they took him into the 
country, after all, because he would keep the 
children out of mischief. 

Well, By and by, Uncle Joseph’s apprentice- 
ship was out ; and while they considered what 
was to be done with such a boy as that, he went 
and did something with himself. 

One fine day, at the accustomed hour, there 
came no Joseph. The children mourned, the 
mother wondered, and the father, going to see 
what had become of him, brought back the as- 
tounding news that he had enlisted ! 

It was in the summer of the war with Ger- 
many, the enemy was in France, battle after bat- 
tle had been lost, Paris was about to sustain a 
siege, and Joseph, reading over the door of a 
recruiting-office: “The Country is in danger!” 
thought he must do something about it. He for- 


100 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


got Algeria and the wild, gay life he was going 
to lead there. He must first help drive the foe 
from the land. When the Country’s honor was 
saved it would be time enough to think of his 
own. 

His sister declared “that Joseph” would be 
the death of her. “That” Joseph, she called him, 
to distinguish him from other and better Josephs 
who attended to their trade and did as people 
told them. She was surer than ever that she 
did not know what he was coming to ; but at 
all events her husband must go and get him 
back again. 

He said : “Let him stay and have enough of 
it, since he’s gone and done it. They’ll teach 
him to mind there, I can tell him. He’ll find 
there’s no shilly-shallying in the army. It’ll be 
good for him.” 

So Joseph stayed and, strange to say, he 
liked it, even though shilly-shallying was not 
included among his military avocations. The 
officers told him to “do this” and “do that” : he 
did it and that was the end of it. When he met 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


101 


his officers again they did not eye him sus- 
piciously and say: 

“I suppose, Joseph, you’ve been at such and 
such mischief.” 

And if one of the enemy’s shells burst in the 
fort and occasioned a great deal of damage, no- 
body turned upon him with : 

“Joseph, if you had done thus and so, this 
never would have happened.” 

The men were good to him, too, — to “little 
Joseph,” as they called him, because though he 
was really well-grown for his age he was very 
young for a soldier. If they bivouacked in the 
open field there was sure to be a warm place 
for him, next the fire ; and when they gathered 
round the soup he was often encouraged with 
a hearty : “Fall to, my youngster !” 

No, he did not object at all to the life in fort 
or camp, and when it came to the first action he 
was glad to see a little stir. Some of the men 
who had been in a fight already, told him he 
wouldn’t fancy it when the bullets began to 
sing, but he must look ahead and never mind 
who fell beside him, only keep straight on and 


102 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


he would get used to it. So Joseph marched 
out with the rest, one misty October morning, 
to try to drive the enemy from the village of Le 
Bourget. They were strongly entrenched and 
the struggle went on for some time with no 
success for the French, though the men fought 
as men should when the enemy is at the door 
and they are defending their hearths and homes. 
It was late in the day when Joseph’s regiment 
was ordered to the attack and ran up the slope 
to the village church, under the enemy’s fire, for 
around the church-yard wall raged the fiercest 
of the fight. 

Joseph hardly knew how he got there. Many 
of his companions fell on the way, but he con- 
trived to “keep straight on,” as they had said. 
His eyes followed the uplifted sword of the officer 
in command and his ears rang with the call : 

“Forward, my men! For ,” and when 

the voice broke and the sword went down, some 
one else sprang to the front with the same cry: 
“Forward! Forward!” So finally the colors 
were planted on the wall and Joseph felt as glad 
and proud as any veteran might. However, 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


103 


things pass so quickly in a battle that he had 
hardly time to think the colors were up before 
they sank again ; and he was no sooner aware 
of that than his hand was on the staff, he had 
stru ggl e d to a footing on the wall and planted 
the flag once more. The bullets came whistling 
right and left, some of them struck — standard 
or bearer — but Joseph held hard till the cry came 
that the enemy was yielding. Then one of the 
last shots brought the flag down. 

The day was fought and won, and as they 
took up the wounded and counted the dead, 
they found “little Joseph” stretched along the 
churchyard-wall with his head on the bright 
folds of the flag and his hand on the staff. They 
did not know it was a future Marshal of France 
that lay there, but they said it was a brave boy, 
and the commander in his address to the troops 
mentioned, among those who had fallen, Joseph, 
as the youngest soldier of his regiment, who 
had held the colors in the thickest of the fight, 
who had deserved well of his country and whose 
memory the army delighted to honor. 

And so that was what he came to, after all. 


104 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


It was not what he had fancied in his waking 
dreams, but at least so much was fulfilled as that 
they were proud of him at home. 

“Our Joseph was a hero,” they said, and 
seemed to forget how stupid he had always been. 
“Our” Joseph they called him now, to distin- 
guish him from other Josephs who were not 
worth half so much. 

“What is a hero?” asked Jean, afraid it was 
something bad because his mother cried. 

“A hero is a man who dies for his native 
land,” said the father. 

“And what is die”? asked Marie, not yet 
satisfied. 

“To die is to go to a better place.” 

“O, then I know!” she cried, joyfully. “There 

are beautiful things there ” but she put 

her fingers on her lips when Jean said “Hush!” 
He was right. It had always been a secret be- 
tween Uncle Joseph and themselves ; they were 
the only ones who knew just where he had gone 
and they would not tell it, even then. 

So long as memory kept the picture bright, 
it was pleasant to think of that other land and 


UNCLE JOSEPH. 


105 


Uncle Joseph so happy there. And by the time 
they knew that no breeze would ever waft his 
ship from that distant shore, and no proudly- 
stepping charger bring him home again, they 
knew also that the Land was far more beautiful 
than his most vivid imagination had ever pic- 
tured it. 


Smcfyert’s Dress 


/|(\ MOTHER, Mother, look! The beautiful 
VP doll all dressed in white! Please stop and 
let me see.” 

The mother yielded to the twitch at her 
shawl, and came to a standstill before the blight 
windows of the toy-shop. The dolly was en- 
throned within, in clouds of spotless tulle, out 
of which her curly head rose in entrancing love- 
liness, while Lenchen stood in the cold December 
twilight and worshipped her. The mother, with 
the heavy basket on her arm, glanced at the pas- 
sers by and waited what she thought a reasonable 
time before saying: 

“Come, I’ve the supper to get, and Lotte is 
expecting you.” 

Then the child took hold of the shawl-end 
and trotted along beside her. 

Christmas was drawing near, and in the con- 
fectioners’ windows stood little trees all hung 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


107 


with bonbons, and at the bakers’ were 
rows of Christmas cakes powdered with 
sugar, and showing here and there a 
tempting black plum. These cakes were 
once made to represent the Babe in 
swaddling clothes, and in Germany are called 
Christ-Stollen, though the intended resemblance 
has died out with time. In shape they are now 
like a baker’s roll in America, but varying from 
a foot to a yard or more in length. 

According to an old custom in the city where 
Lenchen lived, the poor children beg prunes of 
the grocers at Christmas time, and make a little 
man of them, with a paste-board hat, a ladder 
at his shoulder, and a brush in his hand, like a 
chimney-sweep, and then they besiege the people 
in the street with : “Please buy my F ener-Ru pel!” 
Some go on, neither hearing nor seeing; some 
glance and say, “Mercy, the Feuer-Rupel again, 
to be sure,” but by and by some Americans, all 
eyes for everything, exclaim, “Do look at that! 
Isn’t it queer? Here — ” and the Feuer-Rupel 
changes hands for a couple of groschen. 

Lenchen and her mother went through the 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


m 

throng in which a big basket, or a small child, 
may get a good many pushes and thumps, and 
finally reached the house where Councillor For- 
bach lived. The mother was cook there, and 
Lenchen used to go often to play with Lotte For- 
bach, for the councillor and his wife thought 
highly of their cook as a trustworthy and capa- 
ble woman, and considered Lenchen a well- 
taught little companion for their daughter. They 
were hardly within the door when Lotte came to 
meet them, and the two children, after dragging 
off Lenchen’s jacket and comforter, went into 
the sitting-room to play “making calls.” 

“I’m Mrs. Councillor Hartman,” said Lotte. 

“And I’ll be Mrs. Councillor Gruneck,” re- 
turned Lenchen. They were always Mrs. Coun- 
cillor when they were playing, on account of 
Lotte’s father’s title. 

“How do you do?” they exclaimed together, 
and shook hands warmly. 

“Is your husband well?” asked Lenchen. 

“Thank you, yes, but the children are very 
poorly. The two eldest have scarlet fever and 
measles, and the youngest the whooping-cough.” 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


109 


“Oh, I’m so sorry. But there — we all have 
our trials. My poor, dear husband is in a dread- 
ful state. He’s broken the muscle of his back.” 

“You don’t mean so? How did he do it?” 

“Why, he was running down stairs — he al- 
ways will run so! I’ve told him time and again 
he’d hurt himself, but as often as I say it, he runs 
all the more. And so the other evening, as we 
were going out to the theatre, he slipped from the 
top to the bottom of the stairs and lay there, 
groaning.” 

“Dear me! What did you do?” 

“The cook and I had to carry him up again, 
and put him to bed. And he’s never moved 
since.” 

“But I hope he’ll be better soon.” 

“Well, I don’t know ; he’s all over red spots, 
now,” said the young wife, pensively, “and the 
doctor thinks he may not live a week.” 

“Mercy, it isn’t the small-pox, is it?” cried 
her friend, in alarm. 

“No, it’s a severe case of brain fever. The 
doctor is in twice a day.” 

“So he is to my children,” said Lotte, think- 


110 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


ing it now time that her troubles had the balm 
of sympathy poured upon them. “In fact, he was 
in six times yesterday, and he says he never saw 
anything like it, and he shouldn’t wonder 
if they all had inflation of the lungs.” 

After croaking a little more in this fashion, 
they parted, to meet again directly. How long 
a period was supposed to have elapsed between 
the first and second visit cannot be stated, but 
so much is certain, that their late anxieties were 
not even mentioned. The dressmaker was the 
theme this time, and as it did not appear to be 
mourning she was working on, it is presumable 
that the doctor’s gloomy prognostications were 
unfulfilled. 

“She is making me a most elegant thing,” 
said Lotte. “It is red velvet, trimmed with gold 
lace.” 

“I’m having a white dress made,” returned 
Lenchen. 

“So am I, and the dressmaker says she never 
made such a handsome one before.” 

“Mine is beautiful,” said Lenchen. 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


Ill 


“So is mine, too; it is all covered with pink 
satin bows, and lace, and everything.” 

“Mine is only white, but so lovely; — like a 
cloud.” 

Lotte was silent for an instant, thinking 
perhaps she had made a mistake in having pink 
bows ; possibly, the cloud-like lace would be 
handsomer, for Lenchen looked up at the ceiling 
as if she saw something ecstatic. But Lotte 
took heart again and went on ; a bright idea 
struck her. 

“Mine is so exquisite that only the Queen 
wears such a one,” she said, triumphantly. 

“Mine is like what Angels wear,” observed 
Lenchen, after a little pause. 

“Extraordinary child,” muttered the council- 
lor behind his book, as this trump was played. 

“I’ve always said so,” returned his wife, who 
had been listening to the children, too. 

Mrs. Councillor Hartmann swung her foot 
and looked vexed at being outdone. 

“Fve got some real white dresses,” she began, 
presently. “I wear them every day when we go 
to Ems, in the summer.” 


112 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


And now it was Lenchen’s turn to look down. 
Her best dress was a red plaid that was only put 
on Sundays, when her mother took her to hear 
the band play. 

“And I’ve got pink and blue sashes to wear 
with them,” Lotte went on. But Lenchen was 
silent ; not angry apparently, only thinking per- 
haps, for the first time, with a little wonder, why 
some people had things that others didn’t. Her 
white dress was indeed in the clouds, poor child. 
But it came down to her most unexpectedly a 
few days later. 

There was a great Christmas play to be 
given at the theatre, called “Cinderella, or the 
Little Glass Slipper,” and children were in de- 
mand to represent sprites and fairies in the per- 
formance. Lenchen was accepted for one, and 
she was to wear a wreath on her head, to have lit- 
tle wings, and to earn the first dollar she had ever 
possessed. Lenchen must have the first one to 
spend as she liked, her mother said, but those 
for the other evenings she should put away to 
buy her Confirmation dress. When they asked 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


113 


Lenchen what she would do with the dollar, she 
said : 

“Get a shawl for mother, and then if there’s 
enough left, the doll I saw the other night.” 

The councillor was so pleased at the shawl 
coming first that he told her his wife would 
take her to buy the things, for she was so well 
known in the shops that Lenchen would be sure 
to get both doll and shawl, if she went too. 

They had promised Lotte that she should see 
Cinderella the first evening, but she caught a 
provoking cough and could not go out, and her 
mother arranged to have Lenchen dressed at 
their house in order that Lotte might have some- 
thing to compensate her. So, on the eventful 
evening of the first performance, the little cos- 
tume was brought into the house in a band-box, 
and Mrs. Forbach and the cook shut themselves 
into a bed-room with Lenchen, and left Lotte 
outside because she was only to see when all was 
ready. She could hear the voices distinctly, her 
mother’s and Sophie’s, or a burst of merry gig- 
gles from Lenchen, and “Oh, you do tickle so!” 
and the other two laughing with her. 


114 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


“Here are the little shoes.” 

“Now the wreath, Sophie.” 

“Let mother fasten your wings, my angel.” 

It seemed as if they never would be done ! At 
last the door opened. What was it that flitted 
out— the little sylph-like figure ? Surely not 
Lenchen, who had gone in in a coarse brown 
frock, and pinafore. But it was! She ran into 
the next room in the bright light, while the coun- 
cillor exclaimed: “Ei! Ei! Ei!” and Lotte re- 
mained speechless with wonder. 

Mr. Forbach lifted Lenchen cautiously on 
the table where she could see herself in the long 
glass, and then on a sudden her smiles faded 
away, and she held out her hand to her mother, 
shy of the little fairy creature that looked at her 
out of the mirror. 

“We’ve seen the best of the play,” said the 
councillor, rubbing his hands, while Sophie 
laughed with delight, and tried to reconcile the 
child to her own image. The round neck and 
arms were bare, and the skirts so short that there 
was not much dress to speak of, but what there 
was, was very pretty, and the little wreath in her 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


115 


curls, and the gauzy wings, seemed to please her 
on closer inspection. 

.When they had wrapped her up and carried 
her away, Lotte still stood leaning against the 
table in silence. 

“Is it prettier than the dresses you wear at 
Ems, Lotte?” asked her father, and when she 
nodded “yes” her parents looked at each other 
and smiled. 

The theatre was crowded full, and the chil- 
dren who were there recognized all their old ac- 
quaintances out of the story-book ; the wicked 
stepmother, and her haughty daughters, the old 
king, the handsome prince, the fairy godmother, 
and, best of all, little Cinderella herself; and the 
white doves that picked the lentiles out of the 
ashes. Cinderella went twice to the ball ; and the 
second time, as the clock struck twelve, she ran 
away and the prince after her. She skipped 
quickly enough, but the prince ran fast too ; and 
the children were all excitement to see if he would 
catch her. However, she got off the stage before 
he reached her, and so they could not know. But 
now came all the courtiers running after the 


116 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


prince, as in duty bound; and just as the Lord 
High Chamberlain had reached the middle of 
the bridge built over a lake in the palace grounds, 
it broke and down he fell into the water ! And 
not only he, all the court ladies and gentlemen 
who came racing along behind him, tumbled 
into the lake too, and bobbed about there in a 
most ridiculous manner. They were happily 
none the worse for the little accident and all 
came in again, in the next act, bowing and smil- 
ing as politely as ever. Last of all was the wed- 
ding, of course, when sweet Cinderella and the 
fine young prince were united to be happy for- 
evermore ; and the fairy godmother arrived, and 
the stage was one blaze of light, and troops of 
elves and sprites seemed to fill the air, revolving 
on great wheels, and showering flowers. It was 
beautiful, and a murmur of admiration went 
through the theatre, till on a sudden one of the 
wheels stopped, there was a puff of smoke, and 
a flash of fire, and then the curtain came down 
quickly, and running and trampling feet were 
heard behind it. The applause was interrupted 
by the questions that buzzed about: “What was 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


117 


it?” “An accident?” “A child hurt?” The Crown 
Prince sent from his box to inquire, and probably 
found out, but it was only the next morning 
that the newspaper told the other people how 
a little girl named Helene Bauer was badly burnt 
in the closing tableaux of Cinderella, and had 
died in the night of her injuries, adding that she 
was the daughter of a cook in the service of 
Councillor Forbach of that city. 

Lotte Forbach felt that something mysterious 
was going on when her father and mother whis- 
pered together. There was a strange woman in 
the kitchen, and Sophie’s name was mentioned in 
grave tones, and sometimes with a glance at 
Lotte herself, that she did not at all understand. 

“Fll tell her, by and by,” said her mother, 
when her papa went out. 

“Is Lenchen going to put on her pretty dress 
again to-night, mamma?” 

She got no answer ; her mother was consider- 
ing how best to say that she had put it on for 
good and all, and that the little white wings had 
borne her far away. 

“Come here, Lotte,” she said at last, and, 


118 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


holding her daughter’s hand, looked at her very 
seriously. “Lenchen has gone to her Father in 
Heaven ; He has taken her to live with Him, and 
we shall not see her again until we go too.” 

To Lotte her mother’s manner seemed 
strange and solemn, and her own eyes drooped, 
and her head sank lower and lower under the 
sad, penetrating gaze. She felt as if she were 
naughty, and still did not know why ; as if some- 
thing were expected of her, but what she had no 
idea ; so she only stood digging and twisting her 
heel on the carpet, and said nothing. Finally her 
mother let go her hands with a sigh, and Lotte 
went and sat herself down among her dolls in 
the farther corner of the room. 

It was a strange thing she had heard ! 
Lenchen had gone to Heaven in her white dress 
and pretty wreath to play with the angels in the 
green fields, as they had told her the dear Lord 
would let her do some day if she were good. 
And Lenchen was good then, and the Father in 
Heaven had sent for her. But why were they all 
so sad, as if something bad had happened to her? 
Why did papa talk low, and mamma have tears 


LENCHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


119 


in her eyes, and look so strange? Did they wish 
she had been as good as Lenchen, so that the 
Father might have sent for her, too? It must 
be so, or else why was the house so still? Why 
did the clock tick so loud, and the sunshine look 
so solemn on the floor ? 

It was as if a spell had settled over every- 
thing, only to be broken by a great sob, and a 
tear that fell warm on her hand. Mrs. Forbach 
came hurrying across the room and knelt down 
by her, and in a minute everything was right 
again. Her mother was kissing and comforting 
her, and telling her not to cry, that Lenchen was 
so happy, they must not wish her back again, 
they must all go to her instead. Lotte was glad 
enough to leave off crying ; she herself saw 
nothing to cry about except that everybody was 
so queer. 

When Sophie came back, with her eyes look- 
ing so large and sad, it began to dawn upon 
Lotte that Lenchen was gone for a good while, 
and that her mother missed her. She tried to 
comfort then, in her turn. 

“Don’t mind so much,” she said. “Lenchen 


120 


LEN CHEN’S WHITE DRESS. 


is very happy, and has always her pretty dress 
on, and they take such care of her there. It is 
too far for her to come back alone, but you will 
go to her some day, mamma says so.” 

“Bless her heart!” cried Sophie. “If she was 
a confirmed Christian, she couldn't have talked 
more sensibly.” 

There were other ways in which she was just 
as wise. Poor Sophie had to try hard to see 
with the eye of faith the land where she hoped 
to meet the child some day, but happier Lotte 
knew that place already. Heaven was the bright 
dome over her head, and in any fleecy cloud that 
floated there, she could catch a glimpse of her 
little playmate’s white dress. 


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